


Moira

by sparklight



Series: Iliou Persis [5]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Angst and Drama, Background Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Background Andromache/Hector (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Background Penthesilea/Theraichme (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ensemble Cast, Epic Cycle, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Trojan War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25596988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklight/pseuds/sparklight
Summary: The last few weeks of the war won't bring relief, only more pain. It still has to be dealt with, however, from the realisation of the inevitable end, through the death of heroes, to the fall of a city. The humans involved in the war bleed and die and suffer for it, but the immortal eyes and hearts watching are not left untouched, either.The lot of sacred Troy is death and destruction, with stars and songs to carry its memory.
Relationships: Achilles - Relationship, Ganymede & Hebe (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Ganymede/Zeus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: Iliou Persis [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789012
Comments: 18
Kudos: 28





	1. The Point of No Return

**Author's Note:**

> As a note regarding any of the (background) ships listed, if you're interested in those only, please check out the respective "Death of Heroes" chapter! That's where the focus on each ship will be.

Shimmering, golden nectar with a red tinge filled a krater just barely reached by the long, lancing streaks of sunlight falling in through the columns, the scent of it tickling Hebe’s nose. It was a familiar thing, to be standing here, listening to the seated deities. Hebe just wished she could be elsewhere, and the reason was far less because she should no longer have to shoulder this task, and more so because they were all so much more unpleasant to each other. Had been for the past several years, sides and lines drawn for the war against Troy – longer than that, Hebe knew, though she hadn’t had to see it so very up close before that.

The thing was, she didn’t begrudge Ganymede having been lightened of his duty during this war. That would be ridiculous and unfair, for Ganymede deserved as much time unbothered by what was going on as they could carve out for him. That desire had been hard fulfilled, especially the longer the war had dragged on, but they’d tried. So, she would not, _could not_ , begrudge him, but oh how she wished she didn't have to be here to hear the things often discussed. Especially so when her parents ended up arguing directly.

"I am surprised that the two of you would sit back and observe your favourites while one of them are in need of your presence. Meanwhile, Aphrodite still remains by Alexander's side," Zeus said, his voice pointedly teasing and accompanied by a barely hidden smirk, "she has saved him when he would have lost. With that being so, would you be satisfied if peace were to be struck now? Many lives have already been lost for this; Menelaos will get Helen back and the city of Priam may remain standing."

Slipping back away from the thrones towards the large krater full of nectar, Hebe didn't stop when her father spoke up. Of course he couldn't contain himself. It was nothing new, really; the last nine years had passed in much similar fashion when it came to the fight around Troy. Rolling her eyes, she set the jug down and perched on the chair set by the krater, and knew, just knew, this overture towards stemming the flow of blood wouldn't work. As he'd said, many had already fallen, and regardless of whether Zeus was finally serious - he might well be, for she could see some new tension stiffening his back despite the light tone - when Hebe glanced away to her mother and Athena, it wasn't hard to tell they wouldn't be satisfied.

And then it came to a head.

"What?" Hera said, and a shiver went down Hebe's spine from her mother's tone. "You would let this end now, while the insult paid to me still stands unpunished, despite the years since this started and all the effort I've had to put into this? Not to talk about the sore business dealt to your daughter. Do as you will, _darling_ , but it's not only I who won't agree with your decision."

Husband and wife glared at each other, but unfortunately Hera had put a very pointed knife on the table as part of her protest, and the tip of the blade was pointed directly at her husband. Zeus pressed his lips together, gray eyes thickening to the colour darkening stormclouds in his rising temper. Still tipped his head just slightly, a bare shift of his hair sliding over a shoulder revealing the motion, far more restrained than the grip on his kylix revealed him to be. If only Alexander had not let the accompanying bribes sway him... Maybe that was where Zeus' thoughts were stuck given the current topic, where the insult that had led to the war had first been delivered, for him to speak as unthinkingly as he now did. It was the only thing that would make sense of this to Hebe, later, when she thought it over.

"Love, I could see your want of Alexander's life for the insult dealt and consider it a reasonable price for the end of the war, but you seem to wish to storm Troy by your resplendent self, tear down its walls barehanded, level its buildings, and pluck Priam and his sons and daughters from the palace like a bear does honey and bees from a hive, uncaring if what is being consumed is sweet or flesh. Why go so far?"

Hera narrowed her eyes, dark like a shaded forest dell, and simply glowered, teeth gritted enough a muscle in her jaw jumped. She would not let this go.

Hebe stared at her father’s back, incredulous and pale. Did he seriously think it was _only_ about who had been gifted the apple? To be sure, it was undoubtedly the greatest insult in terms of recent injury to her mother's person paid by a mortal, but she'd been nursing a much more intimate anger over Troy for quite a while now. Was he not thinking about it merely because Ganymede wasn't present to remind him by said presence, or was it the fact that Hera hadn't ever touched him since he arrived? The one time she’d had chance to attempt it she’d been thwarted in removing what she saw as the greatest threat to her position in Zeus' heart. Did the time since then make Zeus think it had no bearing on this?

"Fine," Zeus finally said, practically grinding that one word out, thunder in his voice, in the air, "I wouldn't have this drive a more permanent wedge between us, so you will have it as you wish it, when the time comes for it. But in that case, if I ever have cause to sack one of your cities, you’ll not stop me." 

Hebe pressed her lips together as she listened, but was half tuning out, not wanting to hear. Wishing he would just not point out how much he treasured Troy and its royal family above all others, for it truly wouldn't help anyone or anything at the moment. Easing a sigh out, she glanced around the room instead and caught Apollo standing up, his face blank and clearly not interested in the rest of the proceedings. She couldn't let him go without catching him.

The others busy and their kylikes full, Hebe slid with careful speed out after her half-brother, catching the back of his tunic.

"Apollo, _wait_ ," she hissed as the door closed behind them, cutting off the conversation and making it safe for her to raise her voice, "where's Ganymede? Is it your turn to distract him?"

"Why would I know where our father's cupbearer is, Hebe?" Apollo shook his head, an eyebrow quirked in bland, distant interest, as if he really had no interest in this matter at all, and Hebe huffed. He could be so aggravating, sometimes! So very good at playing distant and contained, but he was as invested in keeping Ganymede as distracted and unknowing of the events as possible as she was! Especially these last couple weeks, with the Trojans unable to break the siege and send the Achaeans back to looting the surrounding countryside and nearby lands.

"Don’t shame yourself, Apollo! You know precisely why. So where is he?"

"Probably in his rooms," Apollo said with a shake of his head, smooth like whipped ambrosia, and Hebe found herself growling, for she’d thought he really would stop being ridiculous. She caught widened blue eyes at the upper edge of her vision as she whipped her hand out, snagging one of the artfully loose tumbles of wave-like curls that spilled from the arrangement of gold piled on top of Apollo's head, twisted a couple fingers around the silky strands, and yanked him down.

"Hebe---!"

"Tell me _right now_!" Hebe hissed, furious, feeling the pressure of time; if she was found out here, it didn't matter which parent found out what she was trying to do. They would both be angry, though for different reasons. "Father is going to try to keep this from him for as long as possible, leaving him to find out either right before the end, or after, and while he'll be doing so in an attempt at protecting Ganymede, that's the worst way to do it! Ganymede needs and deserves time to deal with this!"

Apollo grimaced, trying to straighten up against the grip on his hair, but when she didn't let go, he laid a light hand on her shoulder.

"Sweetest Hebe, let go."

She did, hearing the surrender in his voice.

"With the Muses. Up in Urania's astronomy dome." He frowned down at her, smoothing the curl she'd roughened up, but it was less from vanity and more a gesture of nervous tension, the way he repeated it another few times, unneeded as it was. "He's going to be angry, you know."

"Father will do nothing; he'll be busy trying to do damage control and I could have found out where Ganymede was myself," Hebe said with a smile, but it was tight and painful. This would not be fun. Apollo closed his eyes, breathing out a sigh that smelled of sweet succor and death-rot both. Plague. Gone in the next moment as if imagined, nothing less but faint sweetness about him. His blue eyes were wide and dark before he turned away, his expression almost entirely blank again as he walked away.

"Break it as gently as you can. This is as it will be."

She'd known. It'd been obvious by the tension in the air, the way Zeus had said what he did, as he did, angrily claiming a future destruction of one of Hera's cities if he should wish it. This wasn't the way he wanted the war to go, but it would appease the two most hurt by it... well, the two deities most hurt by the cause of it, anyway. But hearing Apollo confirm it... Hebe’s heart ached. Distantly, she heard her name called, muffled from behind the doors, and fled.

She was quick - maybe not as fast as Hermes, but quick nonetheless. She might not have teleported over to Apollo's palace, but by the breathless lightness in her being as she came to a briefly swaying stop right before she would have tripped on the bottom of the crepidoma, Hebe felt she could just as well have. She barely allowed herself to catch her balance before she flew up the steps, wove past the columns in the portico and dashed across the entrance hall. Urania's astronomy dome was of course the highest point of Apollo's palace, many levels above the highest floor. Hebe honestly loved it there for as much as it sometimes unsettled her. There was something in how vast the universe was, how small the reach of their control actually was, no matter how vast the solar system itself was. It was so small compared to the rest. Ganymede didn't understand her discomfort, but he, at least, compared to quite a few others, Eros and Deimos and Hermes – if more kindly by the last – among them, didn't tease her about it.

Hebe didn't even notice the many long, sloping steps of the central staircase that she took, she just ran up them utterly caught by burning determination. Finally, though, she could stop at the doorway on the top level.

It was a nice space, really, completely aside from her own discomfort with what could be seen in here. In the center of the round room stood the large, complicated telescope Hephaistos had built Urania as recently as a couple decades ago. It was a spectacular construction of iron, bronze and mirrors for all that Hebe had no idea how it worked and felt no curiosity to find out, even less how to operate it. She knew that there'd been plans for something like it before Hephaistos had left after divorcing Aphrodite, but it hadn't been built then, only after he came back. It was a marvel, honestly, and while Urania did use it during the day, it was the most useful during the night. For anything else, there were the mirrors set into the dome's ceiling. Any one of them, along with a bit of divine focus to bring what the mirror was facing into the view let one use the dome whenever one wished. That was why there were marble rows of seating along the edge of the dome and circling the telescope, the length of those polished marble benches overflowing with pillows. It was on the inner ring of seating Hebe found Ganymede and Hymen, sitting hunched up over a viewing disc of silver, murmuring to each other as they pointed at whatever they were looking at.

Hebe, allowing herself a moment to breathe and gather her thoughts, and, honestly, fortitude for what she was going to have to do, glanced up towards the dome's ceiling. High above, right on top of where the divine and immortal youths were sitting, one square of mirror in the ceiling had been bared to the sky outside, shimmering faintly against the rest of the dark ceiling.

She didn't want to disturb them. What she most wanted to do was to turn right around and pretend she hadn't run over here with the intent of telling Ganymede something he deserved to know, but would be terribly hurt by. 

She wanted to leave them there, sitting on that bench quietly exclaiming over whatever dizzying view of space they were watching. She wanted the war to not be happening, she wanted for Ganymede to be back in the place that now belonged to him so she wouldn't need to be present. She wanted someone else to break the news. But Apollo would want to avoid it so he didn't have to face it, as well as to spare Ganymede the immediate pain. Wanted to leave him with the illusion that something would still be left to save, even when he knew it'd be fairer and righter to tell him. Zeus wouldn't tell him either, again because he wanted to spare him the pain for as long as possible. Her father had no grace to give to his beloved cupbearer, no gifts of divine intervention to save Troy, or, at the very least, its royal family. She could tell someone else and let them tell him, of course. Hestia could do it, and she cared and knew it would be right to tell him, surely. With the way Hebe had run off here first, though, it’d take too much time to take herself off to the kitchen. Hebe didn’t doubt that if Zeus got the chance he would make sure there would be no chance to tell Ganymede before it was too late, if he so had to order it. It was well-meant, but misaimed.

Exhaling in a huff sharp enough the boys looked up, confused to see her there, Hebe squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She would do this, and there was Hymen here, too. He would at least be another sympathetic presence.

"Hebe..?" Hymen arched an eyebrow, quizzical but relaxed. Surprised to see her here, but hardly alarmed. She shot him a tiny, tense smile and met Ganymede's bright green gaze from across the floor.

"Ganymede..." No, she couldn't do this standing all the way over here. She should’ve walked over before she said anything at all, because with the way she'd almost slumped, the way her voice had gone softer than she'd intended when she'd said his name already had him shifting his jaw and swallow heavily, suspecting something. "Can I sit?"

Like she wasn't here to give terrible forewarning, Hebe crossed the floor with all the ease of a stroll through the palace orchard. Trees that at the moment were heavy with fruit and the leaves starting to turn in many shades of fire. Hymen and Ganymede glanced at each other and shuffled over so she could sit down on Ganymede's other side, since he'd been sitting right at the edge where the circular seating had a break in it so one could reach the telescope at the center.

"What is it?" Ganymede stared at her with the growing tension obvious in the way he was pressing his lips together, his shoulders stiffening. Hymen looked from Hebe to Ganymede and back and took the mirror they'd been looking at, putting it on his other side. It showing a close-up view of the moon's surface, though with Hymen's attention scattered and focused elsewhere the view shimmered out. Up in the ceiling, the square of glass and mirror stopped glowing and instead showed only a patch of cloudy sky outside.

What was it, indeed. Hebe took a breath and grabbed one of Ganymede's hands, squeezing it much too tight. It was slender and strong, matched with her own in size, though his rounded, buffed nails were shorter than hers. His skin was darker, even now when his tan was starting to fade. Worrying the first row of knuckles with her thumb, she exhaled sharply.

"My parents were arguing at the meeting again," Hebe said, beginning, like a coward unable to face the great warrior fully armed and wielding a long spear and huge shield to protect him, with the easiest part. The part that was rather foregone in how often it happened. Neither Ganymede nor Hymen called her out on it, and she wasn't sure whether she was grateful or not. "He had to finally assure Hera that she _is_ getting Troy's destruction, no matter what it looks like with what he's doing for Achilles. It didn’t need to be this way... They could have arranged a meeting that would have led to peace. Mother sent Athena to make sure the Trojans broke the agreement, and they're fighting again."

It was easy to see Ganymede thought this wasn't any different than what had been happening for the last nine years, well into the tenth now. He was stiff and tense, still, but the nod was too easy, the tilt of his mouth concerned not for himself or what she was saying, but for _her_ , having to see her parents argue like this. Hebe shook her head and his hand both, her throat heavy against her swallow.

"Ganymede, you don't understand. Father explicitly said Mother could have what she wished, as she wished it, when the time comes. _This is it_. The Trojans will drive the Achaeans to the brink, and Achilles will get his glory, and then Troy will fall. _Completely_! You know she won't be satisfied with anything less, and father'll have to let it happen! Apollo said---"

"Hebe, this just sounds like more of the s---"

"No." Hebe shook her head as she interrupted Ganymede like he'd interrupted her, watching him lean forward a little, watching the tension in his shoulders tighten again, the light in his eyes turn edged and brittle at the edge in her voice as she broke him off. 

Ganymede might want to fall back on what had become the normal state of things for the last nine plus years, with Hera badgering her husband for the Achaeans' success and nothing truly coming of it, but that wasn’t possible anymore. He was clutching her hand now instead of her holding his, limp in her grip. She didn’t want to continue. Not with the way those usually brilliant eyes had turned leaden, like the ocean in winter. She had to continue, less Zeus came bursting in and stop her. But Ganymede would know enough by now to question him… it was tempting to maybe hope for that, hope to not to have to do this herself, but her father didn’t break into the astronomy dome during her next few breaths, and Hebe gave in to the inevitable. 

"Apollo said there's no changing it now. Troy will fall."

"I---" For all that Ganymede's dark olive skin was usually rich with colour even deep in winter, now it was slowly turning sallow, stark against the richly embroidered blue of his tunic. "That's..."

"Ganymede..." Hymen shifted closer and slung an arm around Ganymede's shoulders, which made Ganymede jump and suck in a shuddering breath. His chest heaved with it in a way that made it clear he'd briefly stopped breathing for a moment there.

"I just, need a moment." Ganymede's voice was nothing more than a bare whisper as he bent over, his free hand clutched over his face while he was practically crushing Hebe's hand with his other. He was actually surprisingly strong, despite not being divine, and she hadn't expected to feel it as much as she did. It was such an inane thought she felt embarrassed. It didn't belong here, in this moment. 

"... You're _sure_?" His voice cracked, and Hebe was punched with a knot in her throat, nausea bubbling up. She had to spend an extra precious moment to swallow it all down, then a second as well. She wished she could take the words back. She wished she could reassure him that no, she wasn't actually sure. Wished she could say that Apollo hadn't said what he said, hadn't said what he said with the weight of fate and unspeakable truth behind the words. She was glad he would at least not need to know - and hopefully he wouldn't find out - how the potential peace had been destroyed. It wasn't fair that the weight of that should have landed on the Trojan side.

"I'm sure," Hebe whispered, wishing she'd used her other hand so she could've wrapped the one Ganymede was clinging to around his shoulders like Hymen had done, but doing so now would mean she'd need to pull her hand away, and she wasn’t going to do that. To make up for it, she added her other hand on top of Ganymede's, and realized it was shaking a little.

"Okay." It was such a flat, soft little noise it barely counted as a word, the plain agreement of it rendered meaningless against the emotion it was said in. 

Over Ganymede's head, Hymen looked up, and Hebe met his soft brown eyes with the only sense that at least she wasn't the only one that felt helpless. They both wanted to do something, but what was that supposed to be? How could anything at all be done to help? Hebe still didn't regret having come here to tell Ganymede what was now absolutely certainly going to happen. It would have been far worse if he only realized it when it was happening, or even afterwards... But it was such a paltry defense, her stomach knotted with the guilt of having caused this when she technically hadn't had to. She _could_ have left Ganymede unknowing. The thought was sour in the back of her mouth.

They sat there for a long time, Ganymede barely acknowledging them aside from shifting them closer so he was more firmly sandwiched between them. Finally, though, he took a deep breath and let it out with only a slight tremble, and stood up. His face was dry, but it seemed oddly shiny in the light, contrasting against his dull eyes.

"I need..." He shook his head, and though he squeezed Hebe's hand when she reached out again, his fingers cold, he pulled away almost immediately. "I'll see you later. I'm sorry."

Sorry? _He_ was sorry? Hebe flushed, though what the emotion she felt was she didn't know, only that it was hot and tight and stuck in her throat. Yes, maybe walking off without a better goodbye was a little rude, but he hardly needed to apologize for that! Worrying her dress as she stared after Ganymede's hunched form until he disappeared down the stairs and, finally, the sound of his footsteps died away, Hebe bit her lip until it ached.

"What did you do that for?!" Hymen hissed, his usually warm eyes narrow and somehow both his wings and his loosely curled hair were frazzled and poofed out as he leaned over the space Ganymede had vacated. Hebe jerked upright and away, another, different flush rising to her cheeks.

"What? You think he should've found out when the Achaeans were breaching the walls? Burning the city? Killing his last living relatives? Or maybe waking up to a razed, ash-covered ruin?" Flying to her feet, Hebe stomped a foot and threw her hands out, trembling from head to foot.

" _No_!" Hymen swayed back, but he crossed his arms over his chest and glared, still. "I just... think there must've been a better way to do it!"

"Would you like to tell me _how_?" Hebe grated out past gritted teeth, hands closed into fists at her sides so tightly her nails were digging into her palms. Hymen grit his jaw, opened his mouth... closed it. Looked away, but his shoulders refused to soften despite the hesitation. Hebe, for once, didn't bother with being even as polite as Ganymede had been before he left and turned on her heel, stomping out of the astronomy dome and down the stairs.

Was Hymen right? Should she have done this in some other way? But how, in that case? Hebe couldn't see any better solution, and didn't know where to go to ask. 

Herakles would be a comfort and he would agree with her both because he wanted her to feel better and because he would think that _was_ the way to do it. Going to her mother was out of the question, even if this hadn't been about Ganymede. She would comfort her and say she did the right thing, because she wouldn't really care about the effect Hebe's words had had on the other party involved; Hebe had gone out of her way to try to help and be considerate, and that would then be enough. Hera would undoubtedly also think she shouldn't have done it because it was going out of her way, and again not because it was about Ganymede. That Ganymede _was_ involved just meant she would be all the more vicious about what Hebe should or shouldn't have done to go "out of her way" to comfort him. No, her mother was out of the question, and while her father might give her a well-reasoned opinion on it, she couldn’t go to him, either. Again because this involved Ganymede, and considering what, exactly, it was that she'd told him. Zeus would be angry - holding it back, but angry - and displeased she'd upset Ganymede.

What else was there to do, though? She just couldn't see any way... Hebe swallowed heavily and hugged herself, stopping partway between Apollo's palace and her home. Guilt sat sticky and cold in her gut. She wanted...

Oh.

Of course. Aunt Hestia was both where she wanted to go anyway _and_ someone who would have the best answer outside of her father in this case.

Still, Hebe couldn't quite get herself to go over to Hestia's kitchen immediately, feeling guilty about this, too, because Hestia loved Ganymede and would be upset he was distraught. It was still the best choice and the best place to go for the sort of hugs only her aunt could give. After a couple minutes of standing there in the middle of the path, watching the faintly shifting colours of the sky and the long shadows cast thanks to the just barely setting sun, Hebe started walking again, and mostly didn't drag her feet.

###### 

"Aunt Hestia?"

Hestia looked up from her stove and over her shoulder, a question on the tip of her tongue but stopped herself. Immediately turned around and spread her arms instead when she spotted Hebe’s scrunched-but-attempting-not-to-be, tense expression and the way she was worrying the fall of her dress. 

"Come here. You look like you need a hug, sweetest Hebe."

Hebe sucked in a sharp breath that trembled and flew across the floor. Only barely skating around the heavy work table that took up the center of the kitchen she practically launched herself against her aunt. Soft, rounded arms came around Hebe unerringly and hugged her close while Hestia hummed, somewhere between soothing and thoughtful. She was pretty sure she knew what this was about, at least partially. She'd let Hebe tell her herself, though. Hebe would probably need that as much as she'd needed the hug. Rubbing Hebe's back and ending with her hands on the youthful goddess' slim shoulders, Hestia gently pulled them apart but leaned down to kiss Hebe's forehead for good measure.

"Now, what is it?"

Hebe grimaced and took a breath, her gaze flittering all around the kitchen. "I... I realized, from how Mom and Dad were talking, that it meant Troy really is going to fall. And I knew Zeus wouldn't tell Ganymede until it was much too late. So I left. And told him."

Hebe paused there, so tense and still under Hestia’s hands. Saying nothing, she merely ran a light hand over Hebe's hair in quiet gentleness. She would wait until her niece was ready. Soon enough Hebe shook herself, a fine little shudder going through her as he raised her head, wide, usually-brilliant soft brown eyes now dark.

"He was so upset. And I knew he would be! Should I, should I have done it in some other way? I just don't---"

"Hebe, dearest." Hestia sighed, catching her niece by her face with both her hands, gently squeezing it. "Of course he was upset. And maybe you should have told him in another way, I can't know that unless you tell me exactly how you phrased it and how Ganymede reacted. But, even without that I can tell you that it might not have mattered, no matter how you told him."

Her smile slow and melancholy, Hestia shook her head. A wispy lock of hair had escaped her attempts to confine all her hair, she could feel it brush her forehead and cheek, but she let it be for now, distraction as it was. 

"Some news there are no better way to break to someone, no matter how you might twist and hesitate over the choice of words, when and how to tell them. A beloved home town being destroyed in war is definitely one of them, and that on top of what Troy is for Ganymede, even if he's not a god."

"Oh---" Hebe shuddered, understanding what Hestia was implying, and Hestia sighed, nodding. Pulled Hebe close to kiss her forehead again and then simply rested there.

"Exactly. There's no simple way to get over the destruction of a city an immortal has claimed as their own."

Zeus had done what he could, trying to lessen the blows of loss that’d trickled in through the years, but even if he'd succeeded entirely there was nothing that could cushion from this. And the youth was so young, still, and not at all familiar with how they dealt with losses of claimed cities. Not that he could, entirely; again, Ganymede wasn't a god, as much as he was as close to one as someone born mortal human and raised up among them could be. Hestia pressed her lips together and held Hebe a little closer, which also reminded her with alacrity that Ganymede wasn't the only one she had to concern herself with right now. Pulling back, she held Hebe by the shoulders and looked her up and down.

"How are _you_ doing, Hebe?" 

To be sure, Hebe had begun to talk about that with her concerns of how she could have acted differently in revealing what was going to happen to Ganymede. That, Hestia knew, wouldn't be all. Not considering how pleased Hebe had been with Ganymede's presence and taking over the official position of cupbearer and most of the duties that came with it. There were still some of them they shared, but that Hebe seemed to mind less, for she was a social young woman and enjoyed mingling with people, so assisting during feasts was less of an annoying burden. What Hebe had been doing the last couple years wasn’t that.

" _Oh_ , it's..! I don't blame Ganymede at all, for he should have to be there even less, but having to listen to them all for this long, having to work around both Mom and Dad when they've been at each other's throats both openly and hidden, pretending to be polite and pleasant to each other..." Hebe sighed, and Hestia did her best to simply nod, lightly running her hand over Hebe's netted hair, luscious dark curls spilling down over her shoulders. Perhaps she should've taken Hebe out to the nearby room as it was both a more pleasant place to sit and talk and better for this particular conversation. Too late now, though. "It's terrible. It’s also so very _frustrating_ , all this effort and arguing and pettiness over this! Still, I'm glad I'm the one in that room, no matter how exasperating it is."

Sighing, Hebe pulled a little face, flapping a hand in the air. "It also reminds me of how little I like this sort of work; it's much more pleasant to help Ganymede during family feasts when you can talk to people, too; he can have this task, certainly!"

"You really are quite done with that responsibility, aren't you?" Hestia chuckled, wondering why Hera was still displeased about it. To be sure, Hebe hadn't been afforded a task of similar honour and responsibility to replace the one lost, something which could be a point of fair contention. But when the girl seemed more focused on how much she was glad she no longer had to do most of the work attached to the position with any regularity, clearly she didn't miss either the work or the honour of it.

"Oh, you don't even know, Aunt Hestia!" A surprisingly loud, rude noise escaped Hebe as she threw her hands out, shaking her head, "Admittedly, I think I would rather have preferred it if it hadn't eventually come with marriage attached, but... it's not so bad, actually. Herakles can be surprisingly sweet."

Hestia nodded, briefly cradling Hebe's cheek. It'd taken a lot of work on Zeus' part to have Hebe even vaguely agreeable to a marriage after Herakles' apotheosis, though Hera had been amenable at that point. It further certainly taken a lot more time than even that before Hebe had seemed to become more comfortable with her husband. Hestia was glad to hear it from the youthful goddess herself, without prompting and with no pressing need to claim such a thing for any particular reason.

"I'm happy for you, Hebe. I was wondering if you'd regret badgering your father to find another cupbearer with time, but that is clearly not the case." She was also just as happy that Hebe and Ganymede had both taken to each other so quickly and easily. She'd been far more concerned about her niece in the beginning, of course, but the Trojan prince had quickly grown on her and as dear as one as well as the other was to her, it would have ached to have to try and mediate between them should they have turned out to not like each other. Or worse, if they’d had a falling out somewhere, when Hebe might have found she missed her responsibilities.

That had not happened, and instead Hestia had two utterly charming young people under her auspices instead of just one.

"No, no, no," Hebe even giggled, and the sound was unburdened by the tension and worry she'd come into Hestia's kitchen with, "I think I know myself well enough, Aunt Hestia! I'm not _that_ young!"

Oh, _children_. Hestia laughed and cradled Hebe's face in both her hands, kissing her forehead again. 

"While youth and youthfulness certainly doesn't hinder you from knowing yourself, when you leave behind one of your most important duties because you are, you’re convinced, tired of it, it's simple for the lack of it being felt more keenly than you expected and you realizing it was worth more to you than you thought. Don't make that face at me, it's the truth."

Hebe huffed, but then dipped her head in, at least, as sincere of a show of agreement as she could produce, which was certainly not a mean feat.

"Yes, Aunt Hestia. I'm sure that's correct." 

Not a mean feat, but Hebe didn't quite believe her still. Well, no matter. It didn't hurt anything that she didn't. She hadn't had to learn it with her handing over the position of Cupbearer to Ganymede, and youthful as she was, she might never need to learn it.

"Hmm, I hear disbelief," Hestia said with a chuckle, but was hardly of a mind for any true reprimand, and so only squeezed that precious face a little tighter and then let go.

"I would _never_ , Aunt Hestia!" Hebe's honey-brown eyes were dancing, however, and they both knew her shocked insistence was a lie.

"Of course not, sweetest Hebe. Do you feel better, now?" Pausing with her hands around a jar, she looked down at her niece, and while Hebe grimaced, she did nod after a couple beats of silence.

"As... much better as I can, I think. I tried my best, and... and I suppose, in a situation like this, there might be no right way to do what I did."

She might not sound pleased by that, and she was clearly upset for Ganymede still, but that was only proof of her sweet heart and the caring she held for their Trojan prince.

"No, Hebe, unfortunately there probably isn't." Hestia smiled sadly and then opened the jar up, offering it out. "And while cookies can't make anything better, please take some anyway."

"Ohh," Hebe cooed and flew forward, eagerly digging out two handfuls of honey-roasted nut-and-ambrosia cookies, got up on tiptoe to kiss her aunt on the cheek, and left. 

Hestia watched her go with that earlier smile lingering, feeling both pleased and subdued. The stillness inside didn't last for long, for Hebe wasn’t the only one who’d come to her today. Pressing her lips together and rubbing her mouth, Hestia fished out another couple cookies, then fetched the kantharos full of honey-sweetened, warm nectar she'd already prepared and walked into the storeroom attached to her kitchen. She passed the shelves full of jars and dried herbs and fruit, around the presently in-use pithoi and those not opened yet but containing the most precious vintage that might be of use at a proper occasion, and knelt down bythe last one.

"You haven't eaten since you got here, and I feel entirely confident in saying you further haven't eaten since, maybe, this morning. Please eat something of this, dearest one." 

She handed Ganymede both kantharos and cookies, and while he took them he didn't move either towards his mouth. It made her stomach twist. Not because Ganymede necessarily particularly needed this food just yet, so soon, for he didn’t. But he wasn’t one of the Deathless Ones and did still need to eat in a way they didn't. He just wouldn't be suffering in any notable way after less than a day of eating or drinking. No, it was because Ganymede, still as human as he was, loved his food and drink. He wasn't just used to needing to eat, it was also about the pleasure of something tastily savoury or sweet and well-made. He was always delightfully appreciative (nearly) of any- and everything Hestia chose to present to him. Now, though, he simply sat there, the kantharos placed in the hollow made between his crossed legs, the cookies cradled in one hand and the other clutching his arm in half of a self-hug.

"Ganym---"

"Should I have kept working, even after..." the whisper trailed off without Ganymede finishing, and Hestia swallowed any aggravated noise of outrage on his behalf. Instead she reached out, catching his face by a cheek and tipped it up, squeezing it in a strange sort of hug.

"You know that's not what she meant, or what she would have wanted. Don't insult Hebe so, and don't think you should be exposing yourself to more pain than you already are."

Usually brilliant eyes stared up at her silently, and finally Ganymede shuddered, a breath caught in his chest so the noise didn't quite become the wry chuckle it might have otherwise. "No, I know. I'm sorry, Hestia, it's just... I---"

He didn't cry again, but the way his voice caught and broke and he had to swallow heavily, he might have, had his control been less.

"There's none of this you can be expected to react to in any particular way, darling Ganymede," Hestia said, catching his face in both hands now and leaning in to kiss his forehead, repeating a similar sentiment as to what she'd told Hebe, "I would have left Olympos and taken you with me for the duration if I thought that would have helped, but for as tangled as Zeus is in this, despite that he's trying to abide to his supposed neutrality, he helps you deal with it, too. And you, him. I can’t take that from either of you."

There was the tiniest, quietest little huff from Ganymede's bent head, and it twitched in a nod.

"I know he doesn't want Troy destroyed, but that alone is apparently not enough." Ganymede didn't even accuse Zeus now that the king of Olympos was safely absent, just sounded so very tired and, charmingly, a little baffled. 

Zeus got what Zeus wanted, after all, that was what Ganymede was used to. What they all would expect, mostly. As long as the rules weren’t broken. So, not when it came to this. Hestia wasn't quite sure yet, but the last ten years had left an aftertaste in the back of her mouth, a prickle in her shoulders, and she wondered. Wondered, but even if she asked him outright or found other proof, it would not help or matter for Ganymede.

"Sometimes, it isn't, n---"

"Hestia?" Zeus' voice floating in from the kitchen startled them both, and Hestia felt Ganymede lurch forward and then back in an aborted move to get up and walk out to him. He wanted, but also couldn't bear it. She would help, but first there was her brother to deal with.

"A second, Zeus!" calling, she gently squeezed Ganymede's cheeks, dropped her hands and kissed a cheek this time. Then she stood up, tipping her head towards the kitchen and arching her eyebrows. As suspected, Ganymede nodded. That decided, she turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen, and immediately her heart quailed for a third time today. First Ganymede, then Hebe, now her brother.

"Oh, _you_." She sighed and came over, meeting him halfway and foregoing Zeus' hands to throw her arms around him. He resisted for a bare second or two before a huge heave of a sigh escaped him and he curved in over her, face buried in her neck, bare because she didn't ever wear her veil in her kitchen.

"If I had not goaded her," Zeus murmured, so very quietly even Hestia, as close as she was, could barely hear him, and she was glad for that as he continued, "would she have made the same demand?"

As awkward as it'd been to have Hebe vulnerable and loud while Ganymede was close to hear, this would have been worse. He'd find out in time, yes, but there was no reason to lay it all on those slender, if strong, shoulders all at once. They could only bear so much. Hestia drew a sigh and shook her head, sliding a hand up into Zeus' hair.

"You're asking a question you already know the answer to, dearheart," she said mildly, soft as anything, which was for Zeus' as well as Ganymede's sake. "It might have delayed things, but I don't think it would have truly changed anything. If the humans had made an oath, and it wasn't to be fulfilled because letting it be fulfilled would deprive her of the retribution she and Athena feels they are due, then she would have fought for the oath to be broken and left unhonoured, no matter if you'd goaded her or not."

She paused, pursing her lips.

"But I have to say, you must know goading her, and in that way, was entirely unhelpful. _Troy_ , Zeus."

He stiffened against her, and then chuckled. It was a low, grating sound that carried the bare shades of guilt as he nodded. " _Ganymede_."

As if he hadn't thought of it until now. 

Which, he probably hadn't. Ganymede had been such a feature on Olympos so long, that even if Zeus was of course as keen to avoid Troy's destruction for Ganymede's sake as his own, it might be easy to forget the details anyway. Particularly so when his focus was elsewhere, like how to fulfill Thetis’ request for her son’s sake, like goading Hera and with Ganymede safely away from the councils and unable to remind Zeus of the connection with his presence. He was a clever god, with fine awareness of how most of those in his circle might react and well able to use it if he had cause to, but if he was riled, he could become particularly one-track. Such as being greatly indignant and upset about having to most probably give his favourite city up for complete destruction.

"Exactly." Hestia let the sigh she'd drawn in earlier out, tipping her head to lean it against the crown of her brother’s head as she drew her fingers through the fine, dark fall of loosely wavy hair. 

Would that none of this had happened at all. Would that it could have taken a year, if that. It would have been a lot less painful in the long run if it’d all happened faster, for so many people. Her heart ached and she was _tired_ , though she'd avoided all of this as far as was possible. Certainly avoided it more than Ganymede had managed, for, no matter the help he'd had in keeping him distracted, he couldn't help but want to know. To see. She really should've left and taken him with her for a while, but no matter what her heart wanted, that wouldn't really have helped.

"I should have sent him away," Zeus muttered, echoing her thoughts. He pulled back, straightened up and clutched her by the shoulders. His eyes were intent and nearly overly bright, a sheen of desperation, of desire to fix things that could not be fixed, lighting them to near madness. "I should have sent him away with _you_."

Ah, no. This wouldn't do. As surprised - and pleased - as Hestia was to hear Zeus admit to these things without prompting, he was now veering too hard in the other direction in reaction to earlier perceived or actual failings, like a ship heeling over. If he wasn't stopped now, he might send them both away for the end of all this, and as much as she would rather that, it was doubtful it would hurt Ganymede less for when Troy fell.

"As much as I would love to say I agree, and I can admit I'd take him away this very second with me, with or without your blessing if I thought it’d solve anything, that would help nothing at this point." Hestia sighed and reached up to cup Zeus’ face like she'd done with his daughter just earlier. "He will need you, dearheart, and you will need him, when it comes to it. And as much as I'd have liked to avoid things even further, I am needed here, too."

Saying so didn't stop her from a small, wry little smile that perhaps trembled for a beat. "But I'm still very grateful you let me step away from the councils."

Zeus sighed like a storm blown in over the coast, thunder-headed and wave-whipped, slumping down to lean his forehead against hers, bright eyes closing. Cooling, too, to Hestia’s relief.

"I would have given you more than that if you'd needed it, but I _am_ glad you still didn't retreat further than to your kitchen. It's also given Dionysos more consistent experience, though the circumstances hasn't, perhaps, been the most germane for it."

"I’m sure he'll be grateful and relieved when I start swapping with him again!" Briefly, they both laughed, for what else was there to do _but_ laugh about it? They fell silent, then, leaning against each other, and when Hestia spoke up, her voice was so very quiet and soft, her breath barely reached beyond her lips. "How necessary was all this?"

Zeus stilled and was quiet for a long moment that stretched thin and brittle. He ducked away from her forehead to hide his face in the crook of her neck, and Hestia tightened her arms around her brother - technically older, but, too, still younger. The youngest, no matter that he was also the oldest.

"Unavoidably so," Zeus murmured, the words lost against her skin, and maybe she would rather not have known, no matter her suspicions earlier. But she'd asked, and necessity was necessity - in fact, for all this, she would rather it _be necessary_ than anything less.

"That being so," she said, raising her voice to comfortable speaking again and stepped back, squeezing those solidly muscled arms that'd carried so much, though they sometimes had carried it wrong, and tipped her head towards the storeroom, "go to him. And make sure he eats."

Zeus' eyebrows flew up on his forehead as he caught the meaning behind that simple statement, and then he frowned, nodding. "Certainly."

Pleased that Ganymede now would end up getting something in him today aside from a long-passed and long-forgotten breakfast, Hestia let go and watched Zeus disappear into the storeroom. The soft murmur of voices that came from the room wouldn't have been difficult to overhear, but she made no effort to. Instead she just smiled softly when Ganymede and Zeus came out, one of those large arms draped around slim shoulders while Ganymede looked up at her, smiling faintly. It wasn't as lively or full of one as it would normally be, but it was a more honest one, and Hestia was glad to see it. The ridiculous boy had insisted he was _fine_ when he first came in here, murmuring about needing something from the storeroom and then not coming out. After an hour, she’d gone in after him, wedged herself into the bare space left between the wall and Ganymede where he’d been pressed up against the pithos. She was definitely pleased he considered her presence a safe place and someone he wanted to be close to when he was upset, but that often didn't make it any easier for her to actually get him to talk to her, at least not immediately.

The two left her kitchen and Hestia slumped against her work table, sighing into her hands. She wouldn't _not_ want to be here for her family when they needed her, but this... There was the most terrible urge to storm into the council hall and make them all stop, force compromises that were not even possible if this was all tangled up in necessity.

"... Hestia? Are you all right?"

Startling, Hestia looked up and dropped her hands to the table, for a moment just staring at Leto where she stood in the doorway. Clearing her throat, Hestia laughed, caught somewhere between awkwardness and wry amusement.

"Oh, yes. Sorry, I just... needed a moment. With what happened today, there's been several people through here." Hestia smiled faintly and Leto, her eyes bright blue like her twins', blinked and then, slowly nodded.

"Ah, yes." She pulled a face, a tiny little moue that covered for the flash of upset in her eyes. "I heard about it from my son. _Are_ you all right, Hestia?"

Leto, shining like she was bringing a little bit of sunlight with her inside, came up to the table and put a wide, deep basket on it, covered by a thin square of linen. The thick, alluringly floral smell that wafted from it revealed what the contents were even with the cloth covering the woven basket.

"I just need a moment and I'll be fine, Leto," Hestia said, though the question alone had already soothed her some, "can I help you with something?"

A long, fine-boned hand gestured to the covered basket before Leto drew the cloth off and bared the roses to the warm kitchen air, and Leto was smiling as she leaned in, a thick, golden twist of sleek tress sliding over a slim shoulder. "Perhaps we can help each other, now that I have all these roses that need to be taken care of."

The hand reached further, to gently touch the back of Hestia's, and she exhaled at the light, soft-skinned brush that seemed to sink warmth into her veins and from there spread it throughout her body with the pulsing rush of her ichor. They looked to be of an age, she and Leto, though Leto was slim and stately next to Hestia's more heavy-set and rounded, if still tall, frame, and glowing bright compared to more earthier colours. If she gave something of this gentle warmth to others such as was now being given to her through just this kind touch, Hestia would consider her efforts well-rewarded. Closing her hand around Leto's, Hestia smiled.

"I would love that. I believe I know exactly what we ought to be doing with this bounty, as well. Ambrosial---"

"---rose bread." Leto finished her thought and sentence, her eyes glowing like a clear summer sky at high noon, and they both burst into laughter.

"Exactly so! Let me help you tie up your hair and we'll get to it." Hestia gestured for Leto to come around the table and felt her heart already lighten as she stuck her hands into the thickly sleek, blonde strands. She did what she could for her family, but she was certainly cared for in turn and return. And though she could not give more than bolstering words and her presence to the hearts currently hurt by the war, she knew it wasn't a fruitless endeavour. Soothing wounds while they were still being made might feel a terrible waste as they kept being torn open and new ones appeared, but if one didn't clean and bind them as they happened, they'd heal worse - or not at all - later.

Leto turned around after Hestia was done with her hair, and before they turned to the basket and their task, the titan goddess embraced Olympos' heart and held her there for a long, silent moment. Then they parted and, with a small, shared smile, turned to the table. They had work to do.


	2. Death of Heroes: Patroklos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day starts out pleasantly for two lovers currently ignoring the din of war, but Apollo is out for bloody revenge. Thwarted by it not yet being the time for Achilles to fall, he goes for suffering instead. And suffering the death of Patroklos will cause - for Achilles, for the Achaeans, for the Trojans.

Today would be a day of sorrow, but not for the Trojans even if they would not succeed with putting fire to the ships. No, the sorrow was to be for the Achaeans, was to be for Achilles, losing something so dearly loved. Achilles, who would curse himself for actions taken as well as not taken, for decisions made that perhaps had had no need of being made as they'd been, anger and pride drawing nothing but sludge from future's well. Not that that was yet known; for the moment it was early morning, blue-gray and ocean-scented, soft in the stillness of respite and arms wrapped around sleep-heavy bodies.

Achilles woke up first, face as much buried against the pillow as in the crook of Patroklos' neck, having clearly - as usual - rolled them over sometime during the night so he was sprawled nearly on top of him. Ready to spring up first, ready to take any initial, improbable strike that might aim for his lover's body. Not that he was impervious; pain and injury could harm him much as it did anyone, but it took more, and pained him less. Even if it hadn't he would be here any way, like this, though Patroklos had early on laughingly insisted he should be the one to protect him.

Hah! Shoulds were for those who cared for such things, and Achilles didn't. Patroklos might be older, and had certainly guided him in much, and further had his back when needed it during battle, as rarely as that was, and that was all Achilles truly needed. He would guard his heart fiercely, to be sure Patroklos returned to first Skyros to gather his son, and then to Phthia, for Achilles would not. He knew that, though Patroklos didn’t. He’d never told him what his mother had revealed to him. Not that one thing, anyway. Everything else, he’d shared freely and always would, but not that.

Luckily Patroklos was not so sensitive in the matters of convention that he minded, even if he probably dearly wished to protect Achilles as much as Achilles did him in their sleep. He might have been minded to grant his most loved his desires, but his body would not be so easily deterred and he could hardly master himself in sleep! So, this was the way they always ended up when they shared a bed through the night.

Pulling up on his elbows, Achilles studied the man still sleeping under him with bright-eyed, nearly aching, attention. Followed the bumpy path of his broken-and-set nose, having had to be reset more than once; Achilles himself had broken it the first time, and Chiron had taught him how to set a broken nose from that. Followed the soft, mobile wideness of Patroklos's mouth, the slightly scruffy shadow of his beard, which would need a bit of a trim today. Spreading his hand there, Achilles smiled faintly. He would sit and watch Patroklos shave and smugly tease him that he himself was freed from such a chore. Perhaps he should care that his beard was yet ill in evidence, the growth too fine and shy to need any care, considering he was certainly more than old enough by now that it _ought_ to be growing fine, but honestly he didn't. Perhaps it was his divine mother's fault, but if so he would rather thank her. 

It seemed a hassle, and he much liked the contrast between himself and Patroklos this way. It was a comforting constant, as Patroklos's beard-growth had started to come in early, only a couple years after he'd been put in Peleus' care and become Achilles' companion. Rubbing it with light, teasing fingertips, Achilles soft smile had widened and sharpened into a smirk when Patroklos finally woke up, grumbling and awkwardly patting around for the offending annoyance of Achilles' hand. Finally finding it, he smacked it away and yet immediately grasped the fingers, squeezing them.

"You wake early," he muttered, voice rough and accusing, his eyes weighted by sleep and warm. Achilles felt his whole body melt with that heavy look, but couldn’t let go of the blooming light in his chest. The only evidence was how he curved his fingers around the hand that'd captured his, pulling it up to kiss those calloused fingertips. To be sure, there was no need of waking up this early, not when they were not yet participating in the fighting again, and still wouldn't until he had what he wanted. The reasons for the insult mattered little by now; Achilles was just terribly, mortally wounded to his soul still, furious that Agamemnon thought he could get away with such behaviour to one of his accompanying kings and would see this through to his satisfaction. He was not a common soldier, to be treated this way! What need did he have of the gifts that'd been offered, when he'd been so easily ignored before that?

That all this had also meant a blissful stretch of time with nothing but Patroklos' company, undisturbed by anything but the daily needs of the body and training, was a blessing and a gift valuable beyond counting. Especially so when he knew it couldn’t be much time left before he had to pay for the glory and honour he would be reaping. So for now, there was Patroklos and Achilles would have it no other way.

"Your fair face calls me awake," he said, teasing as much as it was true, and Patroklos huffed. There was a burn on his cheeks just barely revealed by the tan, a blush which Patroklos steadily ignored as he twisted them over and around with a growl fierce enough for Ares himself most surely. Achilles let him, back thumping gently against the bed with a laugh, letting it dance through him in full, throwing his head back for it. Laughing for Patroklos' embarrassment, always flustered when he was called beautiful in preference of Achilles when they both knew that wasn't true (but Patroklos was still terribly handsome), laughing in the face of his diminishing time. Yes, it was definitely close; he could feel it like what must surely be the shadowy weight of the measuring rod at the base of his neck, having reached the last stretch of the thread that was his life. But he feared not Apollo's arrows, for he would grind Troy to dust and crown Patroklos with its gravel before he succumbed to his chosen fate.

"The only one of us who could be fair this early in the morning is _you_ , beloved," Patroklos said, a heavy hand ghosting over Achilles' throat, still vibrating with his laughter, caressing the vulnerable softness under his jaw. Then he lightly stole up to wind hair still summer-bleached into blinding brightness around his fingers, cradling Achilles' tanned, smoothly bare cheek with his other hand. "Clearly the proof of your divine ancestry, and I'm sure most women would cry in jealousy for it."

Achilles smirked, teeth bared widely as he reached up to tangle his hand around the fluffy mess of Patroklos' glorious curls. _Yanked_ , which had Patroklos growling at him again, eyes narrowing and darkening. Good.

"Deidameia lamented it often enough, though she's been blessed with her own glories. What does that matter? Mess me up, if it aggravates you so."

A challenge, and one he'd made often enough. One Patroklos always answered, for all that he was hard-stirred to fearsome retaliation, gentle as he most often was. Challenges to his ability to teach, to fight, to leave Achilles a heaving, red-faced mess were risen to with the fierceness of the manslaying god himself, and Achilles would have little else. What did he care about the fighting soon to begin? He would get his glory and the restitution for the insults paid him, his mother had seen to that, and he was only waiting for her call. For now he would have a very pleasant morning.

The pleasure of the morning wasn’t shared by the rest of the Achaeans as they prepared to fight once more. It also wasn’t a sentiment shared the longer that morning drew on while the Myrmidons made their breakfast and Achilles watched Patroklos trim his growth, for Hektor was given fury and glory to spare, and the Achaeans were hard-pressed. They knew not why they were driven so hard, though while they knew they would not be driven so hard if Achilles had been on the battlefield, the fact that he was deliberately holding himself back but for the word of his mother, valuing his injury more than the army would have been a cruel revelation. It was not one most of the Achaeans would ever know, their sore fighting left to seem nothing more than terrible luck, and in the end mattered little with gods sticking their fingers into the fighting.

Gods like Apollo, who went before Hektor as he cleaved through the Achaean ranks like a diligent farmer harvesting his corn, sickle sharp and flashing in the early autumn sunlight. Hektor aimed for the ships with a singular, though not quite god-given or driven, fury, more than enough on his own with Apollo in front of him. 

Poor Aias, bulwark of the Achaeans as he was, was doing his best to stand against the oncoming Trojans. With a lack of powerful enough support around him, however, he would find himself having to give, if only a little. Apollo was less interested in that, since the ships would not burn no matter what it seemed like and Aias' death or survival was not a key point at this junction. With Hektor about to attempt to fire the ships, Apollo left, secure in the knowledge that for now it would be fine for the Trojans and they would not need him to attend them. Right now he had other business to attend to. 

He flitted through the Achaean camp, ringing with the sounds of fighting, with the echo of screams. He passed injured soldiers either laying on the ground in their tents filled with the grim awareness that they couldn't get up to defend themselves, or past less injured men trying to do just that. Passed, too, frightened captive women trying to find places to hide in a place not well-suited for it. There was nothing to do for them, so he ignored it all until he came to the Myrmidon camp.

Patroklos was beseeching Achilles to let him go to reinforce the army, if not together, then alone. Apollo smiled tightly, pleased. He wouldn’t have to urge them, then, and they would bring each other down, one after the other, as was fitting. Excellent. Achilles had asked for glory, for the Achaeans pressured into desperation. He would get it. He might have wanted to heed his chosen moment better, though, for this would give Apollo part of what he wanted. He stood there waiting, angled so he could see down the beach, towards the fighting, as well as the two lovers, Patroklos kneeling at Achilles' feet. Finally, with fire flickering further down the beach and heralding potentially leaving them trapped if the Trojans weren't driven off and the ships doused, Achilles stood up, slapping his thighs. 

"Up, then, and let us get you into my armour so you can deliver the Achaeans from untimely destruction. I’ll not come with you yet." Achilles offered a hand to Patroklos and hauled him up with a smile despite the pressure of time and the threat of smoke hovering over the salty ocean air. He should call the Myrmidons ready, but this was more important; he would have his soldiers ready after this, while Patroklos had Automedon get the chariot ready. 

For now, Achilles helped Patroklos into his own armour with loving hands and a proudly warm smile, no matter how indignant he still was. The greaves were first, laid onto the ground by Patroklos's feet to allow Achilles to brush his fingertips along well-shaped calves in an indulgent caress. He then picked up the padded wraps and wound them around vulnerable skin before he reached for the greaves, the clasps snapping closed softly in the silence of the tent. Then the cuirass over the mail after Patroklos had slipped the latter on by himself. Long-fingered, clever hands with their broad palms slid up the layers of armour, gently slapping Patroklos over his chest and they both shared a grin. Achilles knelt, picking up his great helmet last, reaching out to drop it on Patroklos' head.

Behind them, unseen and unknown, Apollo slipped forward, bending down to Achilles' ear. "Say goodbye properly, son of Peleus. He dies for you, in your stead, today. If it only was your blood I'll be spilling."

His narrow eyes incandescent blue and night-black overtaking them like the furious front of a lightning storm racing to overtake the sun, Apollo glared fiercely enough Achilles threw a glance around him, a prickle of warning pinching his neck. To him, though, their tent was entirely empty, the women currently elsewhere in the Myrmidon camp with their chores. Nothing and no one present, and so, the shiver down his spine was unwarranted. Perhaps it was just nerves and aggravation; sending Patroklos out by himself with their forces, however deadly and skilled he was, did cause a chill to tremble his heart since he would be standing back himself. Achilles was determined and stubborn about it, however. He would not go. Not yet.

And so the two were unknowing of the god watching their goodbye as Achilles reached up, pushing the helmet up over Patroklos' head and clasping him by his cheeks. The short, neatly kept and newly trimmed beard scraped his palms and fingers in a familiar, beloved way as they kissed. Despite the anger in his heart, the hard words of warning he'd spoken already for what Patroklos should and shouldn't do, Achilles smiled, and it was like the sun coming out.

"Remember now, don't go hard up to Troy; the city shan't be yours alone. Take not what's _mine_ , most loved." Again, despite the edge in Achilles' voice, his hands were soft, thumbs lightly stroking along the line between beard and bare skin. Patroklos snorted and grinned, the light in his dark eyes turning them fur soft and warm.

"How could I ever take what's yours? I’m not the son of great Peleus and silver-footed Thetis, beloved!" he said and laughed, and was only half teasing. Achilles, finally, snorted as well, some humour returning to him.

"You could lay waste to the Trojans and their allies one-handed, don't think to hide behind my prowess for your own skill! Heed me and come back, so we may lay ruin to the city side by side."

Not waiting for a response, Achilles leaned down and kissed him again. This time he lingered, made it longer than the earlier brief peck, though soon he was melting for the way Patroklos bent him back, as always thrilling at the feeling of being overwhelmed despite his power and strength. Behind them, silent and invisible, Apollo left the tent, eldritch fire gleaming about his head and lighting funeral flames before the two men's exit.

Apollo watched Patroklos get up on the chariot, the charioteer urging Balios and Xanthos into moving, as Achilles remained behind, arms crossed over his chest and his expression dark again. Smiling like joyless night, ghoulish in the bared sharpness of it, Apollo turned away from one lover to follow the other. He trailed behind Patroklos as he led the Myrmidons to the battle, bolstering the flagging Achaean forces. He followed behind as Patroklos proved once again his own battle prowess and skill in leaving a trail of blood, gore, and trampled corpses behind him. Apollo, temporarily leaving but still watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It didn’t come before Sarpedon fell, and Apollo wished it could have. But it _had_ been the man's time, and not even Zeus was above such things. So Apollo attended to Sarpedon, handed him over to Hypnos and Thanatos, and went back to hound Patroklos like the shadow of death itself. There was more than one Keres now making up the train after Patroklos, an unearthly funerary procession for a man not yet dead, though none could see it. 

Opportunity was finally offered when Kebriones fell, men dying to take his corpse, or to keep it. Hektor and Patroklos were furious in their fight, and it would, almost, have been the perfect moment. But they were parted and Apollo watched Patroklos slaughter the Trojans after Kebriones had finally been dragged behind the Achaean lines and stripped of his armour, considering his next actions. Around him men fought and fell, but the god was untouched, the warriors stepping around him as if they could see him and knew to avoid him, even as they were blind to him. His first intention had been to thoroughly humiliate Patroklos to get a first strike at Achilles, but...

He could still do that, yes, but maybe in a slightly different way than he'd first intended.

A glance over his shoulder and fear struck Automedon's heart, touched the horses at the yoke; even divinely descended as they were, not even Balios and Xanthos could defend themselves against divinely inspired horror. The horses nickered, jittering under the yoke, and in his fearful folly, Automedon spurred the spooked horses away over the battlefield instead of calming them, leaving the man he was supposed to offer a way of retreat to stranded. Satisfied, Apollo strode across the battlefield. He stepped over a couple bodies as if they were no more obstacle than pebbles on the ground, ignoring the men around him who, once again, stepped out of his way without seeing him.

Strolling up to Patroklos, Apollo smiled with all the warmth of winter as he gently ran a finger down the shaft of that sturdy spear. His touch could shatter it like it was a brittle stick no thicker than a child's finger, but it didn't break, not just yet.

"You might take comfort in that many Trojans will die for your death today," Apollo said, his tone conversationally idle. He didn't allow Patroklos to hear him, not in any way more than a suggested whisper at the back of his mind, like a breeze ruffling at a peasant's sweaty nape, hard at work in the fields. Patroklos frowned underneath the edge of his helmet, but didn't lose concentration. "But for your sake Achilles will be dying, too. It'll be your fault, son of Menoitios."

A shiver went down Patroklos' spine, though he didn't quite understand why, for he was certainly flush with triumph and death, had been since he'd set foot on the battlefield. He was now very close to Troy, though, like Achilles had explicitly warned him not to be; this was his downfall.

Critically eyeing the man Patroklos was currently fighting, Apollo pursed his lips, ready to interfere. He didn't need to. Euphorbos skittered back, quick on his feet and warding off the next strike with his shield. Patroklos, of course, followed. One step, two. Three. Still too close to use their spears, more so a pity for Euphorbos for he was excellent with it, and while that would have suited Apollo’s original intention, it no longer did, so this was better. As such, instead swords clashed together, glanced off the edges of the two men's shields, and then, finally, Hektor was coming through the crowd.

Perfect.

Apollo tapped Patroklos between his shoulderblades, and the man staggered forward as if struck. Apollo smacked the base of the swaying horsehair plume and the straps keeping Achilles’ helmet on Patroklos’ head could just as well not have existed for the way the gleaming helmet flew off. Light caught in the rows of boar tusk plates before it descended to the ground, bouncing to a stop at Hektor's feet. Apollo pushed faintness into the hearts of the Achaeans too close to the two men and they retreated, unknowing they were leaving Patroklos without easy protection. Finally he stepped back, making sure Euphorbos retreated, not quite daring to attack the staggered Patroklos despite that it was a perfect moment for it. Meanwhile, Hektor came forward in his stead.

"Take that spear and face me, valiant Patroklos, and cease tearing through lesser men like a rabid dog." Hektor paused, shifting his spear and shield into better grip and position, lips pressed thin under the sharpening tilt of a grin, though it was more like a grimace of bared teeth. "Unless you would like to prove yourself as worse than the unfortunate soldiers you've felled?"

They had fought over Kebriones and been parted; this time, neither intended to let that happen unless one of them were lying on the ground. Apollo lingered beside them to see such desire fulfilled.

"A god surely landed me here, like this, Achilles' helmet in your hands instead of on my head, but I've killed many today, and unless you'd insult them all, allies and kinsmen as they are of yours, some of them have been skillful... just not skillful enough. And do you believe you will be?"

A question for a question, equally as pointed as Hektor had been and with a slight, bare-toothed smirk pulling on his lips. Patroklos' usually light hazel eyes turned dark as they met Hektor's fathomless stare. They both hefted their spears, muscles shifting with readying strain, like spirited horses ready to flee in response to the charioteer's whip.

"Have already been shown to be," Hektor said, perhaps surprisingly mildly as he called back to their fight over Kebriones' body, and then they lunged as one, spears preceding them. Hektor didn't aim quite truly, but he did not miss either, and the sharp bronze edge tore up the finer edge of the chest piece, cutting through the flesh in Patroklos' side and the strap there that partially held the armour together. It flew on, thumping to the ground too far behind them to be of use to either of them. Patroklos' spear, meanwhile, shattered against Hektor's shield like it'd been made of dry kindling, touched by Apollo as it'd been earlier. Dismayed, Patroklos drew his sword - Achilles' sword - and while the cut in his side made the swing he took ache and pull sooner than he'd like, he was not so hurt as to be immobilized.

"The Lord of the Silver Bow surely thinks to make a fool out of me; he'll find I'm not such an easy clown!"

Their swords clashed together, then locked, and the two glared at each other past their interlocked blades. Hektor taller, Patroklos wider in the shoulders, and both of their usually fair faces and dark, short beards spattered in mud and dried gore.

They staggered apart, and Hektor lunged back first, for Patroklos, thanks to his injury, needed a shade more time to catch his strength and balance. Time Hektor wouldn't give him. Patroklos' sword rang against the edge of Hektor's shield, though compared to the spear it didn't break. Hektor's sword struck the plane of a shoulderguard and dented it, but caused no damage as Patroklos flung aside to avoid any strike to his unguarded head. They parted, circling each other like rival lions over a kill, but this time there was no body between them, only hard, churned-up ground and flattened grass.

Patroklos feinted, almost fooling Hektor; the keen bronze edge bit into his elbow, the cut dangerously close to the soft inside bend, to the vein. Close. Almost but not quite. Patroklos cursed and Hektor grinned, one of those bared-teeth grimaces, and bore down on him again. They almost fell into the same back-and-forth as they had over Kebriones' body, but with the wound in Patroklos' side constantly tugging his swings back, like a hobbled horse straining against its bonds, and the cuirass no longer sitting quite as it should, matters were different. Just different enough as Patroklos couldn't put the same strength and finesse into his strikes and the cuirass chafed, biting into the sore wound whenever Patroklos turned wrong.

Their blades locked again and they strained. Hektor leaned in, heavy and unyielding. Before, they'd slipped apart when both of them failed at the same time; this time, Patroklos' arm started to shake before Hektor's, the metal shuddering just slightly against the other blade, and Hektor, fine warrior that he was, noticed both.

He put more weight into it, and Patroklos yielded. Had to yield, had to shift his weight backwards under the pressure.

"Hah!"

Like a mountain, Hektor fell forward while Patroklos stepped back, losing ground without being able to be careful about where he put his feet, fire eating his side from knee up to armpit.

Then Hektor shifted back, easing all that weight off, and Patroklos didn't have the energy or speed to guard against it. The first stab cut a long slash along the side of Patroklos' face, up into his hairline. It unbalanced him further and with it, Patroklos fell. That was the only thing that saved him from immediately getting his head full lopped off, saved his throat just enough to leave him time and voice to speak, but his shoulder and upper chest was soaked crimson through before he even met the ground.

Patroklos died at Hektor's hands with Apollo throwing shadow over him, denying Patroklos the warmth of the autumn sun. Apollo's lips were pressed thin and his expression cold as he stared down at the blood bubbling past gasping lips, pooling under his head. Turning those dark curls blackly wet. It was only partial restitution, and not enough to soothe the angry god's heart; it could only feed it.

If the world was a romance, or Achilles more divine than mortal, he might have known it the second Patroklos fell. But the world could only be as it was, and Achilles, though with a mother counted among the Deathless Ones, bled as red as any of his comrades, as the lover bleeding out on the battlefield. He would know only later, and his grief would be as much of a boon to the Achaeans as his rage had been a bane.

His grief would also be his own bane.


	3. Death of Heroes: Sarpedon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeus grieves his son's death, Ganymede tries to do what he can. Hades, too, ends up doing something to help, though a little more reluctantly at first.

Sarpedon was dead, and Zeus had let him die. 

Had been reminded that he had to let him die, for it was his time. Had been sore displeased about it, but had allowed it to be as it ought - had - to be. Many would most probably have imagined he might have dropped the whole matter behind him as the day turned into night, for what was one mortal son of a god among the many? Chill rain was falling over Olympos however, had been doing so since Zeus had left the council hall, cold-faced and grim-eyed. It wasn't the bloody rain that had fallen for Sarpedon over Troy, but it was a rain cold enough it was covering all the leaves starting to turn colours, the pines and the bushes, in a swaddling of ice. This despite that it was early, warm autumn and not the middle of winter.

It was dark in Zeus' rooms, but the high, yellow full moon was catching on the gathering layer of ice on the balcony's polished floor and railings outside. It made the view nearly glow, and turned the falling rain here and there into winks of crystal. Ganymede watched the rain with his eyes as heavy as his chest. His whole body still seemed to be ringing with the awareness of what was to come, and he’d spent the last three days in a numb haze, jagged through with feelings. With Zeus wrapped wrapped around him, quiet and still, Ganymede had something else to focus on, though it was not really any kinder or more pleasant of a thing than the one that’d haunted him for the last couple days.

But it was something slightly different, and he could actually do something here, however little.

Ganymede was practically smothered by Zeus' enormous arms around him, his back pressed against the broad expanse of chest. With the regal thrust of Zeus' nose in his hair and the slow, even breaths ruffling his curls, it would have been easy to think Zeus was sleeping. He wasn't, Ganymede could tell. Not that Zeus slept much, even when his arms and shoulders weren't wound tight with tension, when he wasn’t clutching Ganymede close as if he might evaporate if he let go, for while he _did_ sleep, it often wasn't many hours at a time. The god preferred to just lounge in bed, relaxed and... Ganymede wasn't entirely sure what Zeus found so pleasant about it, when he wasn't sleeping, but whatever pleased him. It certainly pleased Ganymede to sleep with Zeus right there beside him, even if he wasn't consciously aware of the god's presence for most of that time. It was simply impossible not to know when Zeus was or wasn't with him in the bed; even at his most carefully quiescent, essence drawn so tight as to nearly be taken for mortal, Ganymede could tell he was there, even deep in sleep.

Ganymede wasn’t sleeping now, and Zeus wasn't being careful. He wasn't lashing out either, but the tension in his arms was echoed in the sensation of pressure Ganymede got from Zeus' essence, coiled about him much the same as Zeus’ physical body was. He knew that was just as much 'Zeus' as his body, probably even more so, but it was easier for Ganymede to think about it that way.

"There wasn't anything you could have done?" Not questioning, just a question, softly asked into the darkness as Ganymede shifted - got pulled tighter against Zeus' chest - and wormed an arm out from its confinement so he could wrap that hand around one of Zeus' own, larger ones. He hadn't known what had happened at first, but the rain had been a chilling surprise on the game of kottabos he and the Erotes had been playing - Ganymede trying to keep himself distracted, the Erotes trying to distract him. It'd been obvious _something_ had happened, and they'd broken their game up, unable to keep it going. He'd met Hebe on the way back and she'd grimaced at him, bent down to whisper _Sarpedon's dead, Father's probably in his rooms._ and he'd been going there anyway, but it put a little bit of extra speed and need to his steps.

"I certainly _could have_ ," Zeus said after a long moment of silence, not moving from where his face was buried in the soft riot of Ganymede's curls, "but I was reminded it would be unfair, and would set a precedent. It _was_ his time."

Zeus sighed, and it wasn't even a loud one. It didn't fill the quiet room in the sort of way Zeus' exclamations and gestures and expressions often and most usually did. It was a soft thing, barely stirring Ganymede's hair any more than Zeus' breaths were and they were more like feathery caresses, as soft as they were. There was a large hand spread out over Ganymede's chest, a palm resting so heavily right above his heart Ganymede actually had to be deliberate as he breathed. Zeus wasn't trying to strangle him, of course. He was just currently a bit careless about the weight of both his body and his essence, while, apparently, reassuring himself Ganymede was right there and perfectly alive, even though he had so very little to do with Sarpedon there was no comparison. Ganymede had been born mortal, however, and was only here, immortal and eternally youthful, thanks to Zeus’ intervention. He could so easily have been lost.

"I'd already given him a life far longer than most of our mortal children usually get, so doing even more, when the scales had fallen against him, would have engendered displeasure."

Ganymede blinked, nodding slowly. That, though, made him feel more confident in asking something he'd been wondering since he'd heard Sarpedon's name among the Trojan allies. "Is... was, Sarpedon Minos' and Rhadamanthys' brother, then?"

It'd sounded ridiculous when he'd heard it - sure, he _knew_ about both a Sarpedon and Rhadamanthys being driven from Crete as Minos took the sceptre, and Rhadamanthys then taking charge of a number of islands at the edge of Cretan influence, while Sarpedon had fled further, to Lukka. He'd just thought the Sarpedon who'd come from Lukka to aid Troy had been the grandson of the older Sarpedon or something similar, but apparently not?

"He was, yes," Zeus said with a slow chuckle, "but I didn't gift all three of them such long lives."

So the Minos Theseus had dealt with... probably _had_ been a grandson, instead of Sarpedon being the grandson. Ganymede suppressed his snort, for he wasn't sure Zeus was so very minded to be humoured by his confusion or assumptions at the moment. Zeus sighed into his hair again, and Ganymede slid his other hand up to spread it out over the back of the hand on his chest.

Deliberating for a couple moments while Zeus’ grip remained steady and he refused to move from where he’d practically buried Ganymede against him, Ganymede bit his lip. Worrying it, he hesitated over whether to say something, _how_ to say it, and finally the words just spilled out.

"... Why not go say goodbye?"

Ganymede refused to feel flustered about asking that, no matter how much that proved he was still definitely thinking like a mortal human. The gods did not - usually had no need to? - attend their mortal children's funerals. Certainly had no custom for it among themselves, with their own; it was rather antithetical to what they were, after all. Saying goodbye to the dead was an extremely mortal concept despite the number of mortal children the gods had had so far, so suggesting Zeus go do so was quite ridiculous, he knew. Zeus, though, had stilled behind him. Stilled so much he wasn't even breathing any longer, huge and dark and silent where he was wrapped around Ganymede, dwarfing him as much as the bed dwarfed them both.

"I could tell you that is not needed---"

"And I know you didn't do anything like this when, say, Sarpedon's brothers died, or most of the others. The closest would be Perseus, or the twins, but the twins are still around, of course…" Finally, Ganymede twisted around in Zeus' grip, and Zeus let him, though his arms tightened around him as soon as they were face to face. Or, well, not face to face, because his head had been pillowed on Zeus' chest, for otherwise Zeus wouldn't have been able to bury his face in his hair, but, details. Ganymede tipped his head back, managed to worm one arm around Zeus' surprisingly trim waist and stretch up the other to curve around his neck. "You aren't mourning like a mortal, and wouldn't be even if you went, love."

Zeus stared down at him silently, his gray eyes silver in the dark, nearly glowing. Eased one arm away but the other just twisted up against Ganymede's back, one hand spread out to keep him where he was, an embrace as much as a trap. His other hand came up to Ganymede's face, Zeus brushing his knuckles over a smooth, sloping cheek. The return of his breath was a heavy, wavering thing that might have bowled Ganymede over if he wasn’t as pinned as he was.

"Come with me."

"… Of course." Feeling both pleased and sad all at once, Ganymede rolled off the bed as soon Zeus let go of him, which still didn’t happen immediately. It happened only after a lingering kiss, too aching to be truly sweet and Ganymede clung to Zeus through it as much for Zeus as for himself, hiding the tremble in his fingers by digging them into Zeus’ back. Finally, though, he got up and got dressed, but Zeus didn’t bother with such mortal pretences like he usually did and dressed himself between one step and the next. They didn't walk out towards the front entrance; instead Zeus waved him out onto the balcony, and while he was seemingly undisturbed by the freezing rain, Ganymede shivered. He quickly stepped in close to Zeus, who dropped a heavy arm around his shoulders and pulled him close with a nod.

"Take a breath."

Knowing what was going to happen, Ganymede wound one arm around Zeus' waist and took that breath. He felt the god shift beside him, taking a short, simple step, and the world shifted, pearlescent dove-gray for a disorienting, empty moment. It slid back into shape and Ganymede's breath caught right in the middle of his exhale, nearly punched by the sense of familiarity, of sudden homesickness. He hadn't thought this through, but he wouldn't redo it any other way despite that. 

It wasn't Troy, of course. 

Lukka was really quite far from Troy, but Lukka was still Luwian, and even just the empty stretch of corridor they'd ended up in carried details and decorations that were familiar in a bone-deep, childhood way that he'd nearly forgotten. There was even something in the air that smelled right, somehow, though Ganymede couldn't put a finger on what it might be. Not salty ocean air, they were too deep into this palace for that; this corridor didn't even have windows. It didn't matter, honestly.

What mattered was the smell, was the painted reliefs on the walls on each side of the door they were standing in front of. On the left hand was a great god wielding lightning and a spear against a huge snake, waves spilling around its many coils, and on the right was the same god in a chariot, four horses pulling in it full gallop. Ganymede imagined the surprisingly fine details of the god's face was quite familiar, but then, considering who the man beyond the door was related to, why shouldn't they portray this particular god? Above the doorway was a winged sun, gilded so that the torches on each side of the door caught in the metal and made it glow. The bottom of the door also held a sun, but though it was gilded, it wasn’t winged; instead the bottom around the sun was painted dark, swallowing the sun as well as making its brightness stand out all the more.

"I should have come here alone."

Looking up, away from the reliefs, Ganymede frowned and reached out to lightly touch Zeus' arm, the dancing light catching in the scatter of fine, dark hair there. "Why? I wanted to come with you."

He wasn't going to say that he wouldn't have wanted Zeus to go here by himself when he was already upset, and he wasn't going to say that this wouldn't make him see Zeus any differently, and he definitely wasn't going to say that he thought Zeus needed the company. They were all true, but Ganymede knew better than to voice them so explicitly. So saying he wanted to come with him had to stand in for all of that, and more than so besides. Zeus sighed, a shudder of an exhale that held the suggestion of a storm.

"This might not be Troy, but for as familiar as it undoubtedly is, it could just as well be," Zeus said quietly, a large hand coming up to curve around the back of Ganymede's neck. Biting his lip, Ganymede swallowed heavily and smiled, shaking his head.

"That's true, piḫaššaššiš, it's familiar. More than I thought it'd be, too. But despite the reason we're here, it's familiar in a good way, in a way it wouldn't be if this _was_ Troy."

At least right now. Right now, he couldn't go down to Troy and feel the least bit soothed by the familiarity of the place, by the fact that it was still standing. It would just hurt. 

Here, though, where the differences reminded him that it was not his childhood home but still carried the smells and colours and designs of it, if slightly different by distance to the north-western coast of Anatolia, it was easier. The look Zeus gave him was sharp, but after a beat or two he nodded and faced the door. Ganymede wouldn't say he actually saw the shift of Zeus imperceptibly straightening up, or the rising of his chest as he took a breath, but there was a sense of expansion from him, and the hand on Ganymede's neck was, for a brief moment, turned heavier before it slid off. Zeus was stalling. It was such a startling realization, all Ganymede had time to do was catch the falling hand by the wrist and squeeze it, and then Zeus was moving but for a quick, solemn but stormy glance down at him. Maybe it was for the best, though, for what else could he even do to make a difference? He was doing all he could, which meant following Zeus inside the lamp-lit room beyond, the light casting a honey glow onto the floor, the walls, the body.

Sarpedon was laid out surrounded by armour and weapons, clothed as finely as if he was to marry, or marrying one of his daughters off. He didn't look injured, even less lethally so, and the layers of clothing, fine square patterning and heavy embroidery and fringe work all decorating his gleaming limbs, had little to do with it. This was the work of Apollo and then Thanatos and Hypnos after they'd taken the body of Sarpedon from him. The result was that Sarpedon almost looked like he was sleeping, his expression peaceful and his face strong, no hollow-cheeked stiffness about him. His chest was deathly still, though, breaking the gentle illusion, and when they stepped up next to the bed Sarpedon had been laid out on, Ganymede half a step behind Zeus, the sweet fragrance of ambrosia hovered about the body.

Sarpedon had been tall. It was hard to judge when he was laying down, the huge shield propped up at the end of the bed casting shadow over his feet and lower legs, but Ganymede was pretty sure Minos would have been only just slightly taller, though Sarpedon had probably been more broader at the shoulders and chest. Zeus' huge hand as it came down to cradle his son's face still put the mortal son to shame and made it obvious how great the difference between god and even divinely-fathered mortal human was. There was the tiniest of trembles to Zeus' hand, and Ganymede turned his face away, though he took half of a step sideways, closer, pressing in against Zeus' side. He'd said he wouldn't see him any differently, and he would not, but it seemed better not to observe. He wasn't here to do that, only to offer some sort of company.

Beside him, Zeus was still. So very still Ganymede could swear it was like being pressed up against a warm statue, and it was tempting to turn his head back, but he didn't. 

Instead he looked down, to where Sarpedon's strong, broad hands were wrapped around the golden hilt of a sword as well as a sickle, heavy rings covering his fingers in far greater number than any Achaean man would wear. One of them, the flat top of the carved gem large enough to cover most of Sarpedon's middle finger, portrayed a man offering a hare to a shorter male figure. Ganymede blinked and let his gaze wander down along the fringed end of the heavy mantle draped diagonally around the body as Zeus' other hand came up to hold him closer, the grip on his shoulder nearly tight enough to ache. There was a boar's tusk helmet, ivory polished to shining and definitely new, set between Sarpedon's feet, only visible at this close since the shield otherwise hid it. There was a torn necklace, carved gold, lapis lazuli, and colourful glass beads scattered all over the fabric that covered Sarpedon's lap.

Ganymede bit his bottom lip as he stared, the light catching in the grooves and raised lines of the gold beads, warmed the blue of the lapis lazuli, and deepened the shadows under the glass beads to an amber colour, and wondered who'd torn their necklace off for the dead man. A daughter? A wife?

He almost jumped when Zeus reached out to turn a couple of those beads over, picking one up to roll it between large fingers, then dropping it back down. Now, that hand was steady, as was the one on Ganymede's shoulder. Carefully, Ganymede tipped his head, looking up at Zeus from the corner of his eye. He looked drawn, his lips pressed thin and rarely seen wrinkles in evidence at the corner of his eyes, but the gray of them were calm and still.

"Piḫaššaššiš?"

Zeus sighed and turned, bending down in that impossible-seeming shift of muscle, pressing a kiss to the top of Ganymede's head. "If I had been unobserved, I would still have saved him from death."

It was a quiet confession given to the muffling thickness of Ganymede's curls, one that revealed the depth of disregard Zeus had been willing to exercise if he'd been free to do so. This, then, hadn't been necessary. Just a question of fate, of a man's lot in the world, the same as any mortal was destined for aside from rare circumstance.

"Are you glad, then, that you weren't?" Ganymede whispered, wondering if it was too far to go, too soon. A sigh eased out of Zeus so quietly Ganymede only noticed from the shift of his hair, Zeus gently squeezing his shoulders before he straightened up, his eyes dark but now free of any crow's feet, and the line of his lips not quite so grim.

"It is for the best." Zeus threw one last look at the finely arrayed body of his son, shook his head, and turned Ganymede around. "Let's go back."

Had this helped, or not? Ganymede wasn't sure, but he knew by now that, honestly, it almost didn't matter. Zeus had wanted to go even if he wouldn't have thought of or admitted it to himself, otherwise he wouldn't have followed Ganymede's suggestion. Grief could not be soothed so quickly or easily, but it was maybe somewhere to start. If only he could be there as well, with loss already over with. For Ganymede that was not yet, and he was both glad and feared it.

Troy might yet stand, but there was an army right outside the gates and Achilles was furious.

###### 

Ganymede was sprawled, heavy and sweet in sleep, against him. Zeus, eyes closed but full aware of the room around him, of the precious, but insignificant weight of his prince fitted along his side, and could not dispel the ache well enough to sleep. Not that what gods called sleep was quite the same as mortal such, but it was close enough in form if not in function - the biological processes that needed sleep were not something the Deathless Ones shared with mortals. But there was a reason for it still, a function, and Zeus could not settle enough for it.

There was the even, rhythmic rise and fall of Ganymede's chest against his side, the quiet rush of air following, and Zeus' hand in those rich curls paused every time Ganymede had breathed out, then moved again when he breathed in. Sarpedon had looked asleep on his funeral bed, still and peaceful in death like it truly was only sleep, and Zeus could not quite let go of the contrast of the quiet sweetness of Ganymede curled up beside him compared to the deathly stillness of his son. Ganymede wouldn’t stop breathing suddenly; he was immortal and had been for a while, safely kept from Hypnos’ brother no matter the similarities between the states they gifted humanity. But Sarpedon was dead, not asleep, and had slipped down to the Underworld.

The urge to storm down to his brother and wrest Sarpedon from his domain had eased seeing that peaceful face, cleaned and regal, but the wish he might have been alone so there'd been no one to question his desire to save Sarpedon from death still lingered.

Why this son, and not one of the others?

He did not truly count Kastor and Polydeukes here, for Polydeukes would have been welcomed to Olympos either way, but his love of his brother and willingness to share his nature meant they got to enjoy both of their presences every other day. That arrangement softened any true mourning at Kastor's death, which he would have felt even if Kastor was Tyndaerus’ son, and not his. The twins were far too entwined to separate them by divine or mortal father, after all. Perseus, too, had been mourned and treasured, but Zeus had only felt pride for the man's accomplishments when he died, not tearing urge to keep him alive past even the lifetimes he'd given Sarpedon, lifetimes most mortal children of gods did not get. That he'd given that at all... that, he knew why, though perhaps he hadn't understood it until now, with Ganymede beside him. At the time, he'd reasoned it as a consolation prize for the man willing to flee with his youthful lover, to sacrifice his claim on Crete's throne in preference of Minos, who wanted both boy and throne but had subsided when he had the latter. Sarpedon had taken what his heart wanted - had taken it when Miletus had preferred him over his brother, and had placed his heart above his pride as a royal son.

Something had tugged on Zeus at that display, and he'd given him the gift of life beyond the usual, then. Sarpedon had taken it and flowered, ending up reigning far from home and not satisfied with merely keeping his lover by his side. Some men gave horses and riches to a well-loved retainer, and perhaps a settled city, but Sarpedon had conquered land enough to gift Miletus with all of that from the ground up and more.

Minos and Rhadamanthys, though the latter had reluctantly and furiously given way and gained rule elsewhere by his brother's leave instead of fighting for Crete, had proven good rulers as well. They just hadn’t caught his interest as much, not even when Zeus had spent long years meeting Minos to guide him in the making of laws. Sarpedon had perhaps been an inkling of things Zeus did not yet know about himself fully, and so he'd made a mark more firmly than other sons. Even more so with the time he'd had to live, and Zeus had kept an eye on him throughout that time, enjoying the fact that he was still around. He’d almost become a fixed feature, expected to last as mortals didn’t. Perhaps in that, too, lay Zeus’ aching heart now.

Mortals disappeared so quickly, living and dying in what sometimes seemed no more than a breath, and half of that time, too, went to sleep. Sleep. Beside him, Ganymede slept, heavy and soft against him, perfectly alive even if not conscious. Sleep, like he’d thought before, was the brother of death, similar yet different. Maybe what he should’ve tried to do wasn’t to circumvent Sarpedon's death entirely but rather transform it, offer or simply give him what Endymion had chosen.

No. That wouldn't have given him what he wanted, for as beloved as Sarpedon's face was. It wasn't just the shape of Sarpedon Zeus wanted to keep, but his experiences, his presence and thoughts and actions. Sleep could not preserve that. Only life could, but it had indeed been Sarpedon's time. If only he could have had more before that, though.

... Well, he could, Kind of. It wouldn't be the same, but it would still be something, while still obeying the laws of creation. The idea soothed, as much as seeing Sarpedon's body lovingly arrayed for funeral had. Scrubbing his face, Zeus left his bed, pausing for a moment to watch Ganymede make a face and roll over, curling up in the warm space he'd left. Leaning down, Zeus brushed a kiss to his cheek and rested his fingertips against Ganymede's chest, feeling the easy rise and fall there before he covered him up. Zeus was glad in heart for Ganymede's presence for more than one reason, but at the moment for his simple presence in the bed beside him. He might have to be neutral throughout all this, but that didn't mean he had to sleep in his marriage bed, Hera lusting for Trojan blood far more fiercely than she wished for bed play a lot of the time. He missed her, more certainly, but he saw enough of her in the day; at the moment that was enough.

Well, that was what he told himself, but while there was nothing but his own displeasure that kept him from seeking Hera out, Zeus had no real urge to, missing his terrible, radiant wife or not. Not until this was over and done with.

He forewent the chariot and horses and simply appeared at the entrance closest to the Underworld, sending a not-very-subtle 'request' for Hades' presence. His brother came dragging dark mist and sullenness, his mood darker more so for the closeness to Persephone's return when it'd been so long since she left, and less so for Zeus calling for his presence in the middle of the night.

"What now, Zeus?"

"When Sarpedon reaches you---"

"Zeus---" 

"And after he's paid back the three lifetimes I gave him in Elysium, have him reincarnate whether he's reached the Lethe on his own or not." Zeus glowered at Hades, a rumble in the air around them as he plowed past Hades' interruption by interrupting him in turn.

Hades blinked, eyes pale like the softest mist and nearly mirror-like in contrast to Zeus' currently stormy gray. Usually their colours matched. "... Yes. I can do that."

Zeus stared at Hades for another long moment and then sighed, soft gray darkening a little but also catching the stars visible up in the dark sky, past the tattered remains of storm clouds. His shoulders drooped a shade and he scrubbed his face again.

"Thank you."

They stood there for a long moment, the burbling whisper of a nearby little stream the only sound between them, until Hades shifted forwards, leaving the deeper darkness around the cave’s mouth.

"How are you doing, Zeus?" Hades stepped up in front of his brother, reaching out to brush hair away from his face that was heavy and nearly lank, hooking it around his ears.

"I agreed to drag the war out further than it really had to be because Thetis reminded me of the favour she gave me, because her son was insulted," Zeus said, his voice viciously wry, "how do you think I feel?"

Leaning forward and bending over a little, just enough so he could press his forehead to Zeus', Hades hummed quietly. Like this the heaving pulse of their essences, as much like a mortal heartbeat as it wasn't, settled alongside and with each other. One mellowed out into long, nearly swaying rumbles, the other lightening from a dark grumbling, sweetening into a sound like a rushing river, deep-black and quiet.

"Fate tangling with necessity makes things even uglier sometimes," Hades murmured and Zeus grunted, but didn't move. 

They stood there until the sky started to lighten, then Hades turned and went back down while Zeus went up and settled himself against a still sleeping Ganymede for another couple hours. Ganymede sighed and shifted closer even before he could pull him close, and Zeus found a smile, small as it was. His prince's love of sleeping late was a boon, sometimes.


	4. Fury of the Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war isn't theatre, but the gods have certainly spectated it from their paradise since the beginning, and as both Achilles and the Deathless Ones take the stage, Hebe, Ganymede and Zeus exemplify what the inhabitants of Olympos have been doing since the start of the war; being the peanut gallery.

It was a beautiful morning, the air cool and the light soft. It wasn’t yet late enough in the year that the sun wouldn't heat up the air by noon at the latest, and Hebe and Ganymede were sitting on the pedestal of Zeus' statue, between the giant feet and taking their breakfast there when Themis came out to stand in the middle of the courtyard. Ganymede looked up, watching her close her eyes and tip her head back with a curious frown.

"What’s she doing?" Leaning in close to Hebe, he whispered as softly as he could, trying not to let any tension bleed into his voice and ruin the morning, even if it was a little early for his taste. It was just hard when he hadn't seen Themis do something like this before, and there was a cold needle of awareness in his heart, so easily stirred regardless of distractions. Achilles had gotten his new armour and would be going back onto the battlefield today. Ganymede imagined the burgeoning heat of the day was as much for the sun as Achilles’ fury.

Hebe looked up with a questioning noise, spotted Themis and smiled a little. "Calling everybody to assembly. You've never seen this from the outside, have you? She does this when it's not just an Olympian council that's being convened."

"That's how it works?" Ganymede's eyebrows flew up on his forehead, though actually thinking about it it made sense. Actually going around to every single nymph, river, satyr and deity would be practically impossible in a timely manner, even for someone like Themis.

"The courtyard helps. An assembly call isn't very precise, so it's really only useful for something like this," Hebe said with a nod, finishing off her piece of ambrosia and tipping her head in the direction of the huge assembly hall, not seen from where they sat, of course, not even the towering dome that topped the assembly hall. There were a couple statues, the propylon and the palace's southern side in the way for that. "Want to see what it's about?"

He could guess, and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. Ganymede nodded anyway and they slid off the pedestal, preceding Themis across the courtyard and out along the road to reach the assembly hall with its tiered seating. They ended up in a niche in the skene while the theatron filled up, the Olympians on the lowest row nearest to the orchestra. It seemed a bit unnecessary, the whole of it, especially when it all amounted to allowing the gods free reign on the battlefield. Ganymede bit his lip and frowned.

"But _why_?"

"It'll keep them distracted by each other," Hebe whispered, rubbing his arm, though she was biting her lip as well, now, "and that might mostly keep anyone from directly helping Achilles too much, to make sure, to make sure it all goes..."

She trailed off, grimaced and looked away.

"Since he's so angry."

Ganymede was grateful for her deciding not to finish the earlier sentence. Aside from the tangled knot left in his stomach over the current situation on the battlefield below, the gathering itself was rather anticlimactic. Telling all present that they were allowed to interfere as they saw fit was all Zeus was apparently going to say, and the hall emptied nearly as quickly as it'd filled up. They remained in their spot until the theatron was emptied, leaving only Zeus still standing in the middle of the raised stage of the orchestra, his broad back straight but tension knotting his shoulders. Sharing a glance, Ganymede and Hebe came out from their convenient viewing spot, sliding in under one arm each. The way the tension knotting Zeus' muscles eased as they did so made it far easier than Ganymede had thought to be able to smile up at him, subdued as it was. Ganymede's ambivalence was mirrored in Zeus' own smile, and a couple fingers brushed his cheek before the hand fell back to his shoulder.

"Are you two keeping me company today?"

"For a little while, at least," Ganymede said, despite that he was unsure how smart of an idea even that was. For him if not for Hebe, at least. But with Zeus for the moment alone and seemingly remaining so for part of the day, at least, he really would rather stay next to Zeus for as long as he could. The gods of Olympos who weren't arming themselves to potentially actually fight against and with each other down at Troy had clearly left for wherever it more pleased them to otherwise be. Dionysos especially had looked rather relieved as he left the assembly hall. It couldn’t be easy to be trapped in the middle of all this when he had no stake in it or concern for it, though Ganymede had seen him pause by Apollo often enough these past fifteen years.

They ended up back in the council chamber, echoingly empty with only three to fill it. This time it was Ganymede instead of Hebe who fetched a kantharos of glittering rose-gold nectar from the krater behind Zeus throne before he leaned against the armrest opposite of Hebe. He looked neither at the fire nor any other particularly reflective spot of polished marble for that matter, preferring the view past the columns. It was the safest spot or direction to look at in this room, since he, compared to the Deathless Ones, could not just shift his attention and sight and end up looking wherever he wanted in the world below. Ganymede was rather thankful at the moment that he did need a suitable surface to see any further than regular sight. Olympos itself thrummed with power, however, and that, along with Ganymede's desire - willing or unwilling - was often enough to let him see further as long as he did have something to act as a medium. Unfortunately, as the war grew on he'd become more and more unwilling, but his desire and focus had grown apace. That was why his friends' distractions were a true blessing, aside from keeping his thoughts busy. There was no such distraction at the moment, since both Hebe and Zeus were definitely taken by the view below, and Ganymede knew he should leave. Instead he turned forward, eyes drawn towards the flickering fire in the hearth as a moth to the light, and soon the view of the battlefield outside Troy came into focus. Spiralling down, settling... on a disguised Apollo approaching Aeneas.

"What is he _doing_?"

"Getting a bit ahead of himself, admittedly, but it’s also a distraction. Apollo knows one of the others will be obliged to ensure Aeneas' survival," Zeus said with a huff, shaking his head, "Achilles is already pushing fate as it is, and if I have to I will rein him in, but that leaves us, even those who would sore like to defend a Trojan at the moment, obliged to keep fate on track."

Ganymede pulled a face, uncertain of the logic, but regardless of the reason for Poseidon acting it did bore out. That neither Athena nor Hera did anything wasn't really surprising. Ganymede sullenly wondered if they wouldn't fight against not just fate but necessity itself, if it was involved in this, if it stood against them and what they wanted to achieve. Not that it mattered right now. Aeneas was fine, and both Hektor and Achilles were kept from each other. At least at first. Ganymede could not imagine that that would be allowed to stand for too long, that Achilles wouldn't, like Zeus had said, tear down fate itself to be able to get at Hektor for killing Patroklos. Apollo telling Hektor off for wanting to fight Achilles didn’t last long either, but if Hektor hadn’t reacted, Ganymede might have been tempted to go after Achilles himself if he’d been down there.

"Wait, isn’t that---" Flinching as the spear pierced through the young man - _boy_ , rather, for while Ganymede wouldn’t be able to recognize _all_ of Priam’s children, the youngest were obvious, and that was Polyxena’s twin brother. What was Polydoros doing on the battlefield? Hebe swallowed a little noise and Zeus grunted.

"Probably sneaked out among the warriors this morning."

It was certainly the only way Priam and Hecuba’s youngest son after Troilus would have been allowed out there, since even Troilus, just a little over a year older, wouldn’t have been sent out, not without extremely pressing reason. Well. If he’d still been alive. Ganymede gritted his teeth and looked away from the fire for a moment, closing his eyes, throat tight. Still he didn’t leave, and instead looked back with a hissed little curse, pale-faced but for the moment valuing the company as well as his own stupid, stupid and morbid need to see more than a vague sense of peace of mind.

Polydoros’ death hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Apollo’s warning to Hektor was worth less than the boy’s blood on the ground. It would be better if Hektor hadn’t let that goad him into attacking, for Achilles would certainly kill him now. 

Ganymede had just hoped it would take longer than this, far longer than this, even if that was only another day or two, but now it seemed that it was to be today, this very moment, as Hektor threw his spear – and Athena breathed on it, sending it back to lay like a hand-tame hunting dog at Hektor’s feet. Ganymede clutched at the armrest, digging fingers into solid gold instead of divine flesh as if that would hide his reaction as Achilles leaped at Hektor. As if that would make the result easier to bear. But as Achilles leaped, his shadow over Hektor heralding oncoming death, Apollo shielded Hektor from sight. 

Three times, Achilles tried, three times he was thwarted. 

It was a relief, but on the other hand it left Achilles free to tear through the ranks of the Trojans and their allies with the same impunity a ravening lion might fall on a herd of sheep mostly consisting of day-old lambs, and he could not watch for long.

Turning away, Ganymede watched the view out past the columns instead, a glorious early autumn morning. The late morning sunlight was full and golden as it spilled onto the cloudy marble outside, the glare too reflective to show any mirror images of the sky in the stone. There were no trees to see from up here, but the breeze coming in from the open half of the hall was cool, heralding the turn in season. Hebe made a noise, and Ganymede helplessly looked over at her past Zeus, arching a silent eyebrow. She glanced to him, away, then back and shook her head, a hand over her mouth. Uncertainty was written all over her, and Ganymede glanced between the fire in the hearth at the center between the thrones, then to Zeus, who chuckled.

"You might want to see this," he said, flicking a gesture towards the fire with the hand that rested around Ganymede's shoulders before he took another sip of nectar. 

Biting his lip, Ganymede shifted on his feet and finally, reluctantly, looked back at the fire properly, let his sight adjust to the scene he both wanted and dearly did not want to see. Corpses, of horses and men, upended wagons, soldiers... running, not fighting.

"What's _going on_?" Baffled, Ganymede watched both the Achaean and the Trojan forces scatter away from the part of the plain where the Skamander arched around it on the way to the sea. Panic heaved through the men, but while it might not be obvious to the mortals below, to the three watching it was easy to see the surging waters take care when a Trojan or one of their allies fell into the water spilling forth like a spring flood overflowing the bounds of the river. They were not pulled this way and that, weren’t dragged under. The water instead stilled like a pool around them, allowing them to get to their feet. Any Achaean suffering the same fate to the water tearing at their ankles and calves were not afforded the same courtesy. In fact, the rushing tear of water seemed to grow all the more fierce around _them_.

"Achilles has angered Xanthos," Zeus said, squeezing his shoulder, "and godlike he may be, but there are limits to the mortal children born of gods. Achilles has found one of them. It's exceedingly hard to fight an angry river if you don't have a grip on the actual immortal body, after all. Water cares little for the razor edges of swords or spears piercing it."

Zeus' voice was heavy with wry irony, and Ganymede smiled, just a little. Decided not to ask why or how Achilles had angered his grandfather. Why Xanthos was acting now was obvious, considering the morning’s assembly; earlier only the Olympians on each side would have dared to act, and that only whenever Zeus didn’t order them back. It was this that left Achilles fleeing before the surging wave of Xanthos' anger, and distance seemed to matter little. Xanthos refused to calm, searching Achilles out further and further away from his river's bed while the powerful warrior staggered over unseen hazards hidden under the water flooding the plain. Even more beautiful was the blessed moment where the whole battlefield was turned into churning, watery fury at his grandfather's hands, small whirlpools churning clots of mud around and slamming them into unaware legs. It seemed this wasn’t enough, and Xanthos called for Simoeis to join him.

Then the fire burst up.

"Grandfather!" Ganymede cried, his voice cracking along with his heart, clutching Zeus’ hand now. He couldn’t help it, for those fires were not of mortal make and were thus a very real threat; those fires were Hephaistos'. What did it matter that water should douse fire, even a great amount fire? Little, in this case.

"It'll be fine, Ganymede." Zeus gently disentangled his hand so he could cup Ganymede’s face instead. He turned it away from the view in the hearth for the moment, forcing Ganymede to meet calm - but fierce - gray eyes. Ganymede might have flicked his glance between Zeus and the fire if he had been able to look away, but the heavy weight of Zeus' attention as well as the command in that gaze kept him rooted. "Hephaistos and Hera will not seriously harm your grandfather, even less lethally. Not one of the Deathless Ones."

There was an edge in his voice that said _they better not_. It had little to do with who Xanthos was to Ganymede, to Troy, or to Xanthos' brief ability to assist directly where Zeus couldn't, neutral as he was supposed to hold himself. It was the adamant edge of fury borne out of divine order. They did not lethally injure or kill each other, not even just a river god, for no reason, and certainly not for a mortal's sake.

Biting his lip, Ganymede slowly nodded, but he could not stop the tumbling thoughts offering up scenarios where that reassurance proved false, because what would Hera really care about it, if it gave her what she wanted? Maybe that was ungenerous, but with the war - was he not allowed to be at least a little such? Xanthos and Simoeis were the only ones of his family, extended and not, he was still the closest related to. More than that, they were the only ones he'd met somewhat regularly since he'd been brought to Olympos. Facing the destruction of Troy, the annihilation of his extended family, was agonizing enough. The possibility that the war would deprive him of either Xanthos or Simoeis tempted him to plead with Zeus to do something before there was any damage done, lethal or not, for surely he could act in a matter such as _this_? Ganymede could not bear the thought of someone who he had thought of as immortal, as a constant, compared to everything else when it came to his family and his connections to them, to then not be there. He fisted his trembling hands at his sides and screwed his eyes shut, swallowing heavily.

"Peace, beloved." Lightly, the hand on his cheek caressed up into his hair, stroking through it, and Ganymede nodded.

"I know, I know, it's just---"

"If there is true danger of injury, I will stop it."

It wasn't that he didn't believe Zeus, since for all that Xanthos had only taken Zeus' edict allowing the gods to fight as they willed it and had a right to act, and then been offended and angry at Achilles' behaviour, the way Hera and Hephaistos were attacking him did not need to be done this way. They did not, and Ganymede feared for the result. It was primal fear of loss, of not wanting to lose more than he already had, and the desire not to see his grandfather hurt. Reassurance, no matter how true and firmly meant, could not guard his heart against that. Ganymede turned his face into the hand as it dropped down again and pressed his lips together.

"It's fine," Hebe said after a moment that felt interminable but had not been terribly long. Just long enough to feel like forever, like it really would lead to the worst. "They've stopped. Xanthos is fine." 

She smiled at him past Zeus, and Ganymede managed a small one for her, exhaling sharply as he slumped against Zeus' throne. Zeus did not lean in and drop a kiss either on his lips or forehead, but his large, soft thumb caressed his cheek before he laid it back to his shoulder, squeezing it. It was indeed fine, though Ganymede hoped he'd get a chance to see his grandfather in person very soon. He needed to make sure Xanthos was fine himself, though perhaps first after the war was over. Something to look forward to, no matter how small it might seem later, when Troy was... Ganymede didn't finish that thought. Couldn’t. Focused instead on the importance of his grandfather’s survival and him remaining truly unharmed from greater gods threatening him in the way they had. 

Leaned as he was against the throne and still mostly facing the hearth, Ganymede didn't need Hebe's appalled gasp to draw his attention to the fire, to the gods finally, actually, setting up to fight each other.

"Are they... supposed to do that?" He knew what Zeus had said in the assembly hall of course, but he hadn't thought it was meant so very literally. Maybe the way his grandfather had been treated should've been an indication, but it'd seemed different - Xanthos would care for and about Troy regardless of if there'd been any other gods on Troy's side, after all. More than that, he knew what gods fighting - each other or another, powerful enemy - did, to the land and the aether. Human Ganymede might be, with some divine ancestry, but immortality had given him the opportunity to feel such things, especially up on Olympos, and the waves such fighting set off was awful. They would also be fighting right in the middle of all those people, and how safe was that for them?

"Better it happen in known and under controlled circumstances, as I can mitigate any of the greater effects." Zeus shrugged, but his eyes were narrowed as he watched the scene playing out in front of them with sharp focus.

It was perhaps not surprising what happened next, with Athena and Ares facing each other. It wasn’t really anything not seen before, but the rawness of it made Ganymede twitch, flinching as if he’d been struck. 

Hebe made a little noise in the back of her throat and shrunk in against Zeus’ throne as Ares fell from the huge stone striking him. A mortal man would have been entirely crushed under the size and weight of it, though even if one made the stone smaller, for a better comparison, the whole collarbone area as well as the shoulder and part of the jaw would have been smashed. Ganymede pulled a face and looked over to Hebe, wondering if he should shrug off Zeus' arm and go to her, since with as fond as she was of her older brother, she could never take Athena and Ares fighting with ease. Zeus, though he'd smirked briefly, glanced over to her and sighed, acting before Ganymede had the chance to. Transferring his kylix into the hand hanging off Ganymede's shoulder, he reached out to caress her cheek, soft corkscrew curls spilling like dark tears around his fingers.

"Your brother is used to this, and it's certainly not as bad as what Athena assisted and allowed Diomedes to do, which was certainly further than she should have let him." Not that Zeus had done anything about it or that he would ever have said so directly to Ares, loath as he was. Hebe frowned, biting her lip and worrying her dress.

"I know, but... I just wish she _wouldn't_."

"She needs to keep him in check. He has victories enough outside of Athena's involvement, and if he was allowed to run entirely roughshod, the results would not be pretty. He easily forgets his other domains in his battle fury, sweetest Hebe." 

Zeus leaned over and kissed her forehead, and Ganymede _tried_ not to interrupt, but he couldn't help the disgusted little noise that escaped him when Athena struck Aphrodite right in what on a human would be the solar plexus. Aphrodite had been injured worse weeks and weeks earlier, and further by a mortal thanks to Athena's favour, but that still didn't make this injury less of one. To be sure it wasn't a particularly sensitive spot on one of the Deathless Ones, but the force Athena used would've shattered a mountain. Aphrodite literally lifted from the ground for a second or two, then fell like a tsunami breaking onto the shore. Ares, even if he was still in pain and light-headed from Athena's earlier strike and Aphrodite falling pulled him off-balance, too, he still tried to catch her. That Aphrodite fell partially against Ares as they hit the ground, and with his arms under her was a testament to his impeccable reflexes, even when hurt.

"That's---" Ganymede cut himself off, and he tried, he _really tried_ , not to scowl, but the way Athena vaunted over the fallen couple and taunted Aphrodite just seemed awfully tasteless, considering where their individual skills and domains lay, if not their strength. Aphrodite was terrifying in her power, after all. Athena had nothing to fear from her, outside of Aphrodite’s reach as she was, which made this even pettier. But since she wasn't much enamoured with Aphrodite even when they weren't on opposite sides of a conflict, that undoubtedly fanned her mockery.

"My dearest, bright daughter sometimes get carried away." Zeus managed to say that flatly and without smirking. He was perhaps even frowning a shade, though the expression didn't last. 

Ganymede didn't particularly fault Zeus for not being particularly sympathetic, considering what Aphrodite repeatedly had forced him into, or Eros had, and he had curbed his own tongue mostly because he didn't want to antagonize Zeus when it came to Athena. Not that he would be rebuked, really, for he wouldn't, and maybe normally he wouldn't have been so careful, but with the war, and everything attached to it… As raw as he felt over it, and as sympathetic as he was towards Aphrodite for her being treated that way, this didn’t hurt as much as everything else did. Aphrodite wasn’t weak, and she’d been surprised and further helping Ares. If not hampered so, Athena wouldn’t have had that simple of a time of it, but of course Athena knew to choose her moment to strike. 

So more than the urge to vent about Athena's behaviour, Ganymede didn’t want Zeus sullen. Not even for a moment, which might risk that he'd go elsewhere. He couldn’t take that. Not now. Usually, such things would be easier to deal with, but right now Ganymede needed him, for as little as Zeus could actually do. The huge, solid shape of him next to him right now, and, further, often wrapped around him as he fell asleep was a balm. (And maybe, on an entirely petty level, Ganymede was a little pleased Zeus had avoided his and Hera's marriage bed for a couple years by now, and it'd gotten spottier and spottier even earlier than that. It was not something he would ever admit to, barely even to himself.)

"Aphrodite _can_ fight, however," Zeus said, gesturing with a hand as he shifted his kylix around again, "so she is not entirely helpless when not lending assistance. Though it certainly wasn't the fairest way to attack her, a lioness pouncing on an unaware fawn."

Ganymede would commend Zeus on merely sounding wry than anything else he could have voiced. Hebe still huffed and lightly smacked his thick arm, the hit more sound than fury. Now, Zeus chuckled, hiding that and the escaping smirk against the rim of his cup as he drank. Ganymede looked away and rolled his eyes, allowing himself that little moment before he leaned back against the throne and looked back into the fire just as Apollo very primly refused to fight Poseidon.

Ganymede could admit he was a touch disappointed, because while he really didn't have anything against Poseidon despite what he'd done to Troy back then, for that had been fair for the treatment suffered, he could admit he would still have liked to see Apollo fight. It would have been sure to be impressive. Perhaps it was just for the best, though, especially considering when Artemis, who must have been really frustrated, mocked her brother and stalked right up to Hera.

" _Mom_!" Hebe cried, appalled again, incredulous, which masked Zeus' snort and Ganymede had to bite his lip to muffle himself, watching Hera and Artemis lay into each other with their bare fists after Hera had torn the bow from Artemis' hands, the quiver rammed into the side of Artemis’ head before Hera dropped it. 

It was not kind, it was not graceful. 

It was not at all like the way either of them had fought against the Giants either, with cold, calculated anger and strength. Ganymede was pretty sure their fighting made the greatest wave through the aether, the battlefield surely trembling under the divine feet sliding over the churned-up mud and torn grass, as the two goddesses traded blows, white-knuckled fists swinging at full strength into soft, fair flesh. And while none of the mortals saw it, when Artemis fell to the ground from a solid punch to her jaw, all the battlefield seemed to pause for a moment. The glare Artemis threw Hera as she staggered to her feet and left was not the glare of someone defeated, just furiously humiliated and wishing for another chance... but also knowing that would be too far to go.

"... At least Hermes isn't actually fighting Lady Leto?" Ganymede offered up hesitantly, and Hebe murmured something that was agreement.

"I should hope not," Zeus muttered, drumming his fingers gently against Ganymede's shoulder, "Leto is not defenseless, of course, but she is no warrior, and has never chosen to be one. It would be ill if Hermes chose to fight her, even though he isn't versed in war like Athena or Ares."

Both Hebe and Ganymede looked away when Artemis came into the council hall. Her steps made the whole building tremble as she stormed across the floor, agitated enough she threw herself at her father's feet and heedless of her knees cracking into the marble as she slammed a fist against his knee. 

"Did you _see that_? How can she..! I---!" Artemis was fairly quivering in fury, a few, humiliated tears escaping her and Zeus sighed and put the kylix down, though he was still smiling wryly as he reached down and dried them away with his hands, cupping her face. Lightly fingering the bruising already in evidence, he shook his head, dark hair brushing his shoulders like waves.

"Fierce Artemis, you should know better than to throw yourself at my wife and your queen, for though you are a glorious and strong goddess in your own right, rightfully conquering the beasts of the wilds and keeping mastery of your cities, Hera's strength is yet above yours. I'm impressed, though," Zeus said, voice surprisingly mild, which at least had Artemis only pull a grimace and slap his knee when he laughed. He'd been serious in his praise, and it wasn’t lightly given. Though Artemis was still humiliated, she was mollified enough to get to her feet and sit down, taking first her bow and quiver from her mother as she came into the hall, then the kylix Ganymede handed her, and then another for Leto.

The gods started to trickle back in after that, and Ganymede knew he should leave. He should. He did not want to be here, and he knew it. 

Instead he drifted off, down the steps and across the floor, between the round mosaic emblems of Apollo and Athena, and leaned against the column there. If he angled himself _just so_ , he could see the fire out of the corner of his eye between Apollo's and Athena's thrones. More than that, right at this border between the council hall itself and the open air it was harder, not impossible but harder, to hear the gods within talking. Some magic made sure the councils would be kept confident, and he could use that, right now. He should leave, but the awareness of Achilles tearing across the battlefield for blood - Hektor's blood most desired, but any blood would surely do in the meantime - kept him rooted to the spot.

Ganymede knew he would regret it, but he regretted many things when it came to having to suffer through this war. What was one thing more?


	5. Death of Heroes: Hektor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment's respite lends brief relief before Achilles falls on Hektor as the night before was spent in loving arms and hot water, alien things on a battlefield. Andromache's hope to be able to see her husband again will go unfulfilled, while Hektor lets anger and pride keep him outside of Troy's walls.

The roar from the Achaeans chanting echoed over a battlefield mostly empty of anything but corpses and upended chariots, but it didn't drown out Priam and Hecuba's pleading. Hektor ignored them, facing the oncoming fury of Achilles with the grip on his spear white-knuckled and his chin high and jaw gritted. He should go back, he knew. Pride would not let him. Fury would not either, fury that had bubbled within since a soldier that for a moment had been familiar as he carried the corpse of Troilus inside the megaron, laid him at Priam's feet, announcing that Achilles had killed the boy, then disappeared too quickly to be questioned. Fine lines of dried blood and pink scars around Troilus' ankles and wrists revealed his hands and feet been cruelly hacked off, though somehow reattached. Hecuba had been trying to calm a hysterically crying Polyxena, and none of them had been able to disentangle what she'd been crying about until Troilus was returned.

And so fury had seethed, quiet and still, but no longer. 

Achilles would die for Troy, for his parents’ and for Andromache's safety, but most especially for the sacrilegious murder of his next to youngest little brother. Who mutilated an unarmed fourteen year old? What sort of cowardice was it to be afraid of the ghost of a boy? Hopefully Troilus had been buried well enough to make sure he'd gone down to the Sun God and Goddess of the Earth properly. Hektor would rather that than imagining his little brother's angry ghost tearing around the temple at Thymbra, or even trailing after Achilles, uselessly clawing for restitution.

So he would fight to kill him, his brother's murderer, but pride chose that moment to be now instead of any possible later. He'd been thwarted today already; no more.

Men had died due to pride for less, and Hektor had to shift his stance to not follow the ice-cold trickle down his calves to back up even a single step. He used the urge to move to make sure his shield was properly planted, instead. It would ensure he’d keep his life long enough to not bring further shame on himself, and make sure he didn't die having done nothing. That would be even worse than retreating past the doors and behind the safety of Troy's walls. For as much as cowardice might serve to keep him alive for longer, he would not have his wife mourn him having died after having done no injury. He was relived she wasn't among the ones calling for him to retreat, though. She would find out about his victory or defeat only after the fact, and he would not have to see her crying. He would much rather his last memory of her be of the moments of last night, when he'd gone back home for a couple hours after settling the army hard by the Achaean’s fortifications. He had returned, of course, because he wouldn't sleep within the walls of Troy if no one else was, but longing had seized his heart and he hadn't been able to not go search his wife out.

He'd gone to his parents first, of course, but he hadn't lingered, as much as Hecuba tried to convince him otherwise. He would not stay - he wasn't even staying for his wife, and though his mother had of course known him longer, Andromache... well. It wasn't the same.

So Hektor had left them and gone to his own house, raising a hand to quiet the servants greeting him at the door. They ducked their heads and backed away after his cloak and armour had been removed, and he could go deeper in without undue clattering to give him away. He found Andromache - lovely, radiant, clever Andromache - standing half-dressed beside a mostly filled tub, and it was the maid pouring hot water into the tub that gave him away, looking up past her mistress and gasping.

"What--- _Hektor_!" Andromache flew across the floor and threw her arms around his shoulders as soon as he was within reach. She clutched him as hard as any man might, her dark eyes liquid with tears as much as the sweet depth of colour. "Are you staying? Did you pull the army back from the battlefield, so there's less risk of ambush in the night?"

Andromache, who had listened far too much and far too often and showed uncommon understanding of strategy and war when she was no Amazon.

"No," he said, shaking his head and shifting back so he could clasp her by the cheeks, tall and slender as she was, her hair a rich, hip-length spill of cedar-coloured tresses about her, unpinned for the bath, "I am not, and I did not. We must press the advantage while we have it, sweetapple, and if we leave the Achaeans space in the morning to possibly retake the battlefield, it'll take us that much longer to reach the walls, and then the ships. Which is also why I'm not staying the night; I wouldn't sleep here, behind the walls, if no one else is."

Though, their non-Trojan reinforcements had of course always been outside the walls; the city was not large enough to accommodate any but the commanders of the various forces. Andromache's thick, dark lashes fluttered with trembling weight and she shook her head slowly, pulling a hand back to cup his jaw, half a mirror of the grip Hektor had on her cheeks. His beard, having received no razor since two days hence, was thicker and wilder than usual, and cushioned her palm.

"I would fall to my knees and reach for your chin if I thought such entreaties would convince you, husband." She sighed, mouth trembling briefly along with her lashes as her eyes finally fell closed. "But I know it will not. Men are stubborn."

"We carry our pride to keep our hearts alive, wife." Hektor shook his head, tipped her face up and leaned down, for while Andromache was tall for a woman, the beauties of the royal line of Troy lent grace of height to all of its members, but the men most of all. They kissed like air came from nowhere but the other, and Hektor's fingers caught wetness, just a couple silent tears. The aching heart of his wife was nowhere in evidence in her grip on his shoulder, or the curve of her hand around his neck, in her answer to his longing of her, expressed through their lips. He sighed and kissed her cheeks when they pulled apart, then the bridge of her nose. "Being so, thank you. Your timely comment about that section of the walls was a needed reminder to make sure we have a force back there at all times regardless of how far we advance over the battlefield. I should've noticed it earlier---"

"Hektor." Andromache frowned, lightly clapping his cheek in a tiny slap. "Troy hasn't been put under siege for decades until now, you can't be expected to know and see every fault and weakness, or even every strength."

He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Maybe so, but I will still take the responsibility for it. It _is_ my charge, Andromache."

She swallowed some noise and pulled back, stroking her hands down his shoulders. The tunic was stiffer than it ought to be, dried sweat heavy in the fibers as well as, somehow, mud and even blood that had crept past the armour.

"You need new clothes and a bath, my heart. It's lucky there is one already prepared." She chuckled, but Hektor snatched her hands between his own and brought them to his chest, squeezing them and rubbing the delicate knuckles.

"I wouldn't say no to that, but you should have your bath before I take my turn," he said, brows low over his eyes and shaking his head when Andromache opened her mouth to protest, "I am filthy, Andromache. You're far less so. You shouldn’t have to bathe in dirty water, not when it comes from the filthy, ugly work of war. I won't have it touch you any more than it already does."

He frowned, fierce from inside out and top to bottom, a solid tower of disapproval and protectiveness that right now was taking a slightly ridiculous shape. Andromache watched her husband for a beat longer, then shook her head and took her hands back so the maid could pull her dress off her, leaving her bare in the glow of the oil lamps scattered around the room.

"You're ridiculous, Hektor. Never change."

He smiled, slow and sweeter than any but Hecuba and some of his younger siblings ever got to see. Offering her a hand, Hektor helped Andromache into the tub and waved the maid away, kneeling behind Andromache’s head himself and picking the scoop up from the floor from among the bath supplies. His wife didn't protest while Hektor used the leftover water in the bucket to wash his hands before he went for her hair. This, for as unusual as it was, was familiar and terribly wanted, as little as both knew they should want it this way. But Hektor's hands in Andromache's thick hair, slowly and methodically wetting it, were gentle and thorough. It was a moment for the two of them far more than even the privacy of their marriage bed was, filled with slowly rising steam and sweet-smelling oils. With her hair thoroughly wet now, he turned to scrubbing it, enjoying the faint smells locked into the soft strands until there was nothing but the warm scent of water and clean hair in his nose, even when he leaned so close as to press his nose to the hair slicked to the back of Andromache's skull.

Laughing like a little girl, fearless and unburdened and as if there was no war right outside the walls, Andromache twisted away from her husband and turned to splash him, but he avoided all but a few drops. They carved tracks like tears or a flood from a storm filling an empty river bed down his cheek, revealing a thin layer of reddish dust and dried mud. He rubbed it away like it was nothing, like Andromache hadn't just pressed her soft, thin lips together and her eyes hadn't darkened. Ignored, too, that his own hand had trembled briefly, and he looked down at it for a moment too long before he cleaned it off again, looking up to meet those liquid dark eyes of the dearest light of his life. Next to Skamandrios, of course.

"My hands are rough and calloused, sweetapple. Do you still want their clumsy work in washing your radiant body?" Familiar words, and Andromache laughed, shaking her head. They both ignored the slight waver to the sound.

"You keep my whole life stable in your capable hands. I think you can handle soap and water!" A familiar response for a familiar question, and they smiled at each other, the darkness briefly chased away. Though before he could start, she caught Hektor by the arm, ignoring his frown for how this left a thin layer of dark, wet dust on her hand and urged him close. He kissed her, slow and sweet, but there was need behind it. Need which would have to wait until they were done, and perhaps even until after that, for Hektor planned to take his leave sooner rather than later. For now, though, he ran a cloth over long, sleek limbs with the same attention he would caress Andromache in bed, and though it was not meant as a tease, or necessarily even foreshadowing, he certainly and unintentionally suffused his own longing need for his wife's simple presence through that touch and left her shifting in her seat.

They didn't speak while Hektor washed her clean, careful attention paid between her toes and fingers, a flicker of a toothy smile when he came to her breasts. They didn't speak of anything at all, but certainly not of what had happened that day, what had been going on out on the field surrounding Troy. They didn't speak while the maid helped dry Andromache off and Hektor freed himself of the rest of his clothes. He stepped into the water with a sigh, the surface of it faintly gleaming with a layer of oil, turning darker as he sank into it. They didn't speak as Andromache settled behind him, and though his hair was shorter, the attention and time taken was as if he had tresses worthy of Zeus' shining cupbearer himself.

Leaning in, Andromache kissed Hektor's smooth, curving cheekbone, her wet hands on his now-clean, broad shoulders, the light catching liquid golden on his skin. She worked her way down with loving, and certainly also delighted, attention, and though she blushed, ducking her head away as her thumb flicked past one of her husband's nipples firmly enough he jumped, there was a little smile on her face.

"Andromache..." Hektor chuckled, but all he did was briefly catch her offending hand to kiss the back of it, then the thumb's knuckle, before he let go, sighing in pleasure for the firm, sliding grip of the cloth on his limbs. She was as much washing him clean as she was giving him a massage, and the warm water helped further. It was a world away from the bloody, sweaty reality of the battlefield, loud, ugly and terrible. In here there was only the sweet smell of oil and hot waft of evaporating steam, turning the room indistinct and soft-edged in the light from the oil lamps. Unreal, in a way, though this was just as - if not more so - real as the awful work of the day.

When he got up out of the tub, Andromache herself dried Hektor off and helped him into the clean tunic the maid had brought. He caught her by the waist when they were done, clean and soft, and rested his cheek against her temple.

"Has Skamandrios been behaving for you today?" he asked, voice no more than a bare murmur after several minutes of them simply standing there in the cooling room.

"He's been missing his father," Andromache replied, though whether that was pointed wistfulness or the truth did perhaps not truly matter. Hektor sighed, stepping back to catch her by her cheeks again, thumbs stroking her cheekbones.

"And his father has been missing him, as well as missing his wife."

Endless eyes, soft like eternal night and richly dark brown, stared up at Hektor until Andromache had a smile to summon for him. "Say goodbye to him before you leave."

"I will," he promised, and started to turn to do just that, but was caught by the wrist, Andromache's grip surprisingly strong.

"Later, Hektor. I want you." She squeezed, her lips pressed thin and tight, but the wide-open hunger in her eyes was honest and not just a pretext of keeping her husband by her side for just a little longer by any means she might have available. His hands on her earlier had seen to that. She raised the hand she held captive and pressed it to the swell of one of her breasts, reaching out for his other hand as well. "I _need_ you, my heart."

And Hektor, who had been determined to return to the camp after his bath, especially so since sitting there thinking while Andromache washed him made him feel the urge for another meeting, to perhaps scrounge up someone brave and skilled enough to spy on the Achaeans, could not hold against her. For Andromache was a glowing vision of warmth, and he was more relaxed than he'd been for two full days, so where he could stand a whole day against his enemies, he lasted not a minute against his wife. She never had to work particularly hard to stir his desire anyway, and now even less so.

"I need you as well," he said and while he certainly curved his hand around the gift Andromache had presented him with, gently squeezing until she squirmed, he then stepped forward and swept her up in his arms, effortless as when he carried his son. "Let's make the use of the marriage bed it was intended for."

He smiled at her and Andromache laughed, throwing her arms around Hektor's broad shoulders as he carried her off.

Later, after he had indeed said goodbye to his sleeping son, Hektor and Andromache stood in the doorway to the house as she helped put his armour back on, then reluctantly stepped back.

"I will make sure there is a bath ready for you tomorrow evening, so don't leave the army camping far away for a third night, husband," Andromache said, smiling though there was a tremble to it. Hektor took her hand and pressed it to his chest, with cold, hard bronze between that calloused, graceful hand and his beating heart.

"As you command, wife."

The memory of Andromache faded with the shifting shimmer of wind in a patch of grass somehow miraculously untrodden by feet, hooves or chariot, and Hektor twisted himself sideways for the spear that came for him, threw his own with a shout. Achilles' spear went through his shield but missed him, and his spear buckled the edge of Achilles' shield but, too, missed. Unseen by Hektor, Athena gave Achilles his spear back, so while Hektor drew his sword, Achilles hefted his spear and leapt from his slowing chariot. Grace alone, luck of the most simple sort, kept Hektor from being rammed through by the spear Achilles should no longer have at hand as it cut through the edge of his shield, the gleaming bronze edge thirstily aimed for his throat. Hektor tripped, staggering forward over a heavy clump of mud, and the spear scraped a deep, razor-edged scratch into the helmet instead.

But unfortunate for the prince of Troy, his needing to take time to catch his balance meant the furious son of Peleus had time to draw his sword for his defense. They clashed together like angry bulls, eager to be the lone one still standing in protection of the herd.

Hektor had met swords with Achilles before, of course, most notably when the Achaeans first attempted their landing and were driven away. He'd been given a hint, then, of what it meant for a man to be the son of one of the Deathless Ones, and he was reminded now.

Matching swords with Patroklos had been like fighting any man, their strength and weight the sum of no more than their height and build and armour, muscles trained by life and diligent exercise. His sword pressed against Achilles', the screech of metal against metal before they locked, was like bearing up under a rockslide, a solid mass that yet moved and could not be defended against. Hektor strained, teeth gritted until his jaw ached, and knew he would fall back before Achilles did. The man was not a god, though he was surely fair as one of the Deathless Ones, but he was surely strong enough he could have matched against the manslaying god himself for at least a couple strikes.

It reminded Hektor of how it'd been to train Troilus, overflowing with youthful energy and determination, every strike falling as if from a man ten years his senior. The similarity enraged him, but cut a cold path through his single-minded determination. He had been more skilled, older and more knowledgeable than Troilus, but it was still easier to defeat his little brother by using mind instead of brawn.

He yielded.

Folded back and leaped to the side, ignoring Achilles' momentary yell of triumph. The gleaming bronze edge of Achilles’ sword skated down Hektor’s shoulderguard, cut a thin slice of skin and flesh from his arm away, but did no more damage. Hektor focused on feinting, then. On the work of his feet and on leading the heavy strikes and thrusts of Achilles sideways, away. His arm was still aching far sooner than he'd have liked.

"Does the great and glorious Hektor fight like a coward minded to take his opponent in the back?" Achilles smiled, but it was the smile of a starving lion mad for flesh and continuously thwarted by its nimbly leaping mountain goat of a prey, avoiding every lunge. It was the smile of a man who was all the more determined to take a life, now that he was so close to killing his lover's killer. Hektor feinted, lunged low, and though he stabbed the tip of his sword into Achilles' thigh, he had to twist away, nearly falling in doing so, and draw back sooner than he liked for the thrust aimed at him. His shield rang with a blow barely averted, his collarbone bared to the air in a narrow slice, shocking white against the bloom of fleshly gore. Hektor's throat was burning where the wicked point of the blade had pricked him; a warning of what could have been. Blood was now sticking his tunic to his chest, sticky and hot under his armour.

"I fight the way I taught Troilus that strength does not necessarily win everything," Hektor growled, mad at the memory, mad enough he unwisely lunged forward and hacked with neither finesse nor proper strength at his enemy; mad for comparing this murderous brother-killer to his glowing, sweet-faced little brother, the darling of many hearts in the family for his cheerful, teasing disposition as well as his singing voice. He'd been so confident, but not so much he could not take correction, and though some had worried over how closely he doted over (as well as teased) Polyxena, there'd been nothing but the fierce love and protectiveness of a slightly older brother there.

And though Hektor had been unwise and spent more strength than he should, any opportunity for Achilles to take advantage of it fled with the mention of Troilus' name, for his eyes went huge and dark for a moment, his sweetly generous lips softening for an unguarded moment from the snarl it'd been in. 

And then he smiled, sharp and wide and vicious.

"Clearly not a good enough teacher," Achilles said, so soft and mild it was nearly genial in contrast to his smile. They could have been seated beside each other at the dinner table, good-natured argument over the quality of knowledge imparted to a young student they both doted over. 

Hektor froze, chest heaving with need for breath and a line of fire from collarbone up into his throat and down into his aching arm. Unreasoning fury darkened his mind upon those words, though Nemesis was not behind him to lend strength. He bellowed a curse in Luwian and threw himself on Achilles with the same starving fury that had fuelled Achilles through his rampage today.

Carelessness might not yet have been the end of Hektor, his thrust cutting his sword in between Achilles' sword and his shield, scoring a thin line into the side of Achilles’ unprotected throat. Might not but for Achilles’ strength and speed, given through his divine mother and the gift of his winged shoes both. The long line of the blade rung in an echo of Hektor's shout as it scraped along the bottom tip of Achilles' cheek protector, unholy trembling noise to serenade the end of one of Troy’s greatest warriors. 

Red blood bubbled up like the promise of sweet water from a new spring from that narrow cut. Red blood burst from Hektor's mouth as he fell away from a cut that had nearly opened his throat entirely where Achilles had thrust his sword through Hektor's shield and gotten him blind. He yet had breath and a few moments to spare for words as he fell to the ground, though they were words he could have saved, for Achilles heeded them not.

There would be no more baths for Hektor, tamer of horses and prince of Troy.

###### 

Ganymede saw it when Hektor fell.

Not that he wanted to, but with the fire seen from the angle he'd put himself at, he'd been unable to look away when Achilles and Hektor had charged each other. Had watched them match swords for longer than he thought was possible, for Achilles was a towering wall of divinely-descended strength and Hektor, though he shared the gleam of inherited grace from divine ancestors, was still all too plainly human. In the end, though, what happened was inevitable, and Ganymede should've left his spot by the column, should've gone over to Hebe, should've left the council hall entirely before this. He just couldn't make himself move. 

Fury followed in the path of Achilles dragging Hektor around after his chariot, searing his choked-up throat and making his fingers tremble until he closed his hands into tight, aching fists. 

No, that wasn't right; shock was first, empty and wide open. Then came the exhausted, blank knowledge that this was one step closer to Troy's definitive destruction. There were other heroes, other strong, capable warriors who would move mountains to keep the city and the army with its various helping people safe, but Hektor was still a lynchpin, important in holding it all together. If Troilus hadn't been killed, now would have been the time to send him out. Now Priam would have been obliged by desperation to do so, now the boy would undoubtedly have taken the matter into his own hands and ridden out himself.

But Troilus was dead, at the hands of the same man who'd killed Hektor.

Hektor, who was being dragged around in the dust like a worthless kill from a hunt, hair dragging over the ground. His head and body jerked violently, arms bouncing every which way at every unevenness the chariot charged over.

Hektor, who...

"Can't you _do something_?" Ganymede cried as he stomped across the floor, up the few steps onto the low, wide platform the thrones were arranged on and planted himself in front of Zeus, though closer to Apollo's throne than Hera's. He'd had enough, for all that he knew he should swallow it, bite it down desperately until it joined the knot deep in his gut. He knew he should. He could not. Luckily it was Zeus who answered him first and not Queen Hera.

"Ganymede---"

"None of the other worthy warriors who've died has been dishonoured and mistreated this way!" With Zeus having answered him first, it let Ganymede charge past with his desperate, burning anger pouring out in every word, as ill-advised as it was. Ganymede flinched at the flash of incredulous fury on Zeus' face, briefly there and gone as Ganymede ducked his head, mouthing a wordless apology that Zeus undoubtedly saw. Ganymede decided he’d apologize better later, if only because Zeus didn’t really deserve him lashing out at him. Zeus, of course, did not - would not, either, not even with people watching - lash out himself in response to Ganymede’s anger, and not because Hera got there before him.

"Sarpedon was the son of a god, Prince Ganymede," Queen Hera said, her voice sharper than the divinely forged sword Achilles wielded, condescending and haughty, but she wasn't truly angry. Ganymede could hear it, though the edge to it was certainly all too real, but more to ward off any special dispensation given. He wasn't even going to ask for that! Zeus had deliberated earlier, had wanted to save Hektor from his fate, but had had to bend, and Ganymede wasn't going to ask for impossible things, wasn't going to insult Zeus' thwarted desire to help Hektor, especially not in front of an audience. But it was not fair, that Hektor's body should be allowed to be treated this way! 

"And the others who have fallen, valiant all, have had friends and comrades in arms to fight for them. Hektor of Troy decided on his own to fight out on a bare field, any help for his body's retrieval retreated to safety. Such is not our concern, and the son of Peleus is of course understandably angry." The words dripped out of Hera with slow, acidic certainty. It hid the smugness underneath, but her bright, terribly beautiful brown eyes were blazing like backlit amber. Ganymede knew he should know better than to give her what she wanted, and tears weren’t the only thing she could enjoy from him. "If you're not going to perform your task and cannot conduct yourself with equilibrium, perhaps you should leave to allow my daughter to do her job," Hera added, and Ganymede flushed, hands tightening until his nails bit deep into the flesh of his palms and he trembled from it. 

Equilibrium? He'd seen the gods of this council raise their voices and hurl insults at each other like any mortal, Hera herself included!

"I---" Ganymede flinched as his voice cracked, and in front of him Zeus twitched but didn't rise, behind Zeus Hebe was wide-eyed and pale and looking like she wanted to rush forward to hug him but didn't dare to. He should, needed, to leave, but his feet wouldn't listen. To Ganymede's right, Apollo and Aphrodite stood up, and then there was a sweetly rose-smelling, soft arm around his shoulders, the draping fall of Aphrodite's veil hiding any sight of the Queen of Olympos from view.

"This is a day of mourning for Troy, and I wish to comfort my son," Aphrodite said, sure as anything and her voice ringing with truth, "Prince Ganymede will be able to tell me of any particulars of Luwian mourning, so I am borrowing him and withdrawing for the day."

She turned around, pulling Ganymede with her with the ease of divine strength even though she was no taller than Hebe, steering him out of there. Apollo gave no reason, merely walked on Aphrodite's other side and offering another wall against any eyes in the room, whether sympathetic or not. The door closed behind them and warm autumn air enveloped them. Ganymede took a shuddering breath and would have hunched from the flood of shame if he could have, but Aphrodite still had her arm around him.

"I'm so---"

"Hold your apologies, Ganymede," Apollo said quietly, the dispassionate flatness of his voice in stark contrast to the hand lightly curving around his elbow now, giving a gentle squeeze.

"The son of Peleus will find Hektor's body not so easily outraged and torn apart," Aphrodite said, as of continuing where Apollo had stopped, smiling thinly down at him when Ganymede looked up with a startled jerk, "no matter what he does. He will return the body to Priam in pristine condition."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"He will be made to, if he cannot feel the pull of honourable behaviour strongly enough to heed it." Apollo's voice rang with quiet, terrible conviction as he squeezed Ganymede's elbow once more before he let go. "I'll take care of the first pass."

Between one step and the next, Apollo was gone. Aphrodite sighed, lightly squeezing Ganymede's shoulder. "I'm sure Hebe will come seek you out as soon as possible, but in the meantime, my son or Hestia, Prince Ganymede?"

He slumped, then, but didn’t dare to lean into the sure presence of the goddess beside him- Ganymede shot a small, grateful smile up at Aphrodite, then bit his lip for a hesitant moment.

"Hestia, Lady Aphrodite." Saying she did not need to escort him would be to insult her, so he didn't. "Thank you."

"We haven't lost yet, Iliades." For as sweetly encouraging as that was, as Aphrodite was trying to be, there was no denying the darkness in her usually shining green eyes. Ganymede nodded in silent agreement, but there was a heavy lump in his throat that refused to go away no matter how he swallowed.


	6. Death of Heroes: Penthesileia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penthesileia wants for glory as well as the safety of her lover; her father provides as well as he can, but not to either his own or Theraichme's satisfaction. With Achilles on the battlefield, however, and not slated to die yet, there is only one way this can end.

They were a day out from Troy when Ares came to them.

The noise of camp being set up had stilled, and now the air was heavy with the smoke from the campfires and the smell of food being prepared, which brought Penthesileia's thoughts to hunting trips out from the city. This was just on a far larger scale with a force of one hundred and thirty men and women in all, slightly unevenly split between Thracians and Amazons, in favour of the Thracians. The Amazon city was not as large as the three cities back around Thermodon, so there'd been fewer people to pull from necessary tasks, though nearly all had been eager to go.

"Here you are."

"Thank you." Penthesileia looked up with a smile as she took the cup held out by Theraichme, who sat down with a grunt beside her and hooked one foot around Penthesileia's nearest ankle. Uncaring that she had only one hand free with the cup in the other, Penthesileia wrapped that arm around Theraichme and turned her face towards her, opening her mouth like a begging baby bird and with a mischievous glitter to her bright eyes, pale behind the lowered lashes.

"Do I look like your beloved nurse, you ridiculous girl?" Theraichme laughed and yet sopped up sauce with a bite-sized piece of meat and popped it into Penthesileia's mouth. Penthesileia hummed, as much in disagreement as in pleasure for food well-earned after a long day of travelling. Leaning in to kiss Theraichme's cheek, though making sure her lips were clean before, she snorted.

"You're much prettier, as you well know! The dear woman is old and bent and the wrinkles covering her carved deeper than any mountain streambed, though she can still aim an arrow with skill. You're a dagger fresh off the forge, a blooming flower in defiance of hard ground."

Not waiting for a reply, Penthesileia held the cup up to Theraichme's lips and watched her drink with soft-hearted attention. 

Just one more day. 

After that, who knew what would happen? And so, she would squeeze as much life and love as possible out of this last night, the last day of march tomorrow, though she would raze the battlefield entire if it would keep Theraichme alive. Her blood sung with battle-readiness and want of blood to spill, to keep the women and children and old of Troy safe, keep her sisters and their allies safe too. She looked forward to the Achaean spoils they would bring back as proof of their success and skill, but none of those desires diminished the risk of war. People would die when they reached Troy, and it wouldn't just be their enemies. Penthesileia just hadn't been able to let Theraichme go off with her Thracian kin alone, for she was a huntress and not a warrior. Not that Theraichme's skill with a bow wouldn’t serve her as well as anyone on the battlefield, but that just wasn’t the same. The lure of glory in war was enough for any of them, Thracian or Amazon, and so she was riding at the head of fifty-five strong Amazons instead of alone, or with a small honour guard. But she could not bear to let Theraichme potentially die when she could have been there to protect and shield her, so even if she’d had to go alone, Penthesileia would still have gone.

"If I didn't know your skill and eagerness, I'd ask if you intended to serenade the enemy to death," Theraichme said, a grin half hidden against the rim of the cup as Penthesileia took it back for herself and drank from it. She lowered the cup and made the aborted gesture of pretending to toss its contents in Theraichme's face, who didn't have the grace to even pretend to duck, her smile toothy.

"Oh no, most beloved heart, I only do that to _you_."

"It's a terribly lucky thing I have well-tried and true methods to conquer such a beast as you, Penthesileia!" Laughing, Theraichme fed her lover another mouthful of food, then herself as well, for hunger needed to be stilled. Both of them ignored the burn of a blush on Theraichme's well-tanned cheeks, as for all that she sometimes mocked her lover, the poetic words always brought out the sweetly shy maiden in her. This despite that she'd approached Penthesileia first, all proudly daring.

A wavering cry spreading through the Amazon camp brought their half-eaten evening meal to a halt as they looked up. First, Penthesileia tensed, ready before Theraichme to leap up if needed, and then she grinned like fiery dawn had lighted on her face despite that the sun was gone since a while back and flew up to her feet, pulling off her cap.

"Penthesileia, wh---"

"It's my father!" Joy bloomed the cry loud and joined it with the rest, the rising song as much a battle-cry as it was a greeting and adulation for the Amazon people's ultimate father.

"Lord Ares?" Theraichme faltered as she stood up, her voice turning faint even as she searched the busy camp around them, all the women drawn to their feet. Penthesileia laughed, throwing an arm around her lover and hugged her close.

"Don't fear much, Theraichme! He would be well-disposed towards you on the grounds of being Thracian alone, and your willingness to fight will do the rest," she said, squeezing Theraichme closer, just to feel her strong, slim body pressed up against her own. Really, Theraichme had nothing to fear; she made Penthesileia happy, and though she hadn't met her father often, it was often enough. She knew he only wanted what would bring joy to her heart.

"Don't fear _much_ , you say. That's not as helpful as you undoubtedly think it is!" Theraichme scoffed and pressed her lips thin, but she didn't quail away when Ares broke through the last group of women around the fires nearest to Penthesileia's. He was tall, though no taller than his daughter, clearly having put aside divine height and mien so as to not stun them all with barely a glance given. Not to say Ares wasn't still impressive where he strode through his Amazons, large, calloused hands finding cheeks and shoulders as he passed them with a quietly murmured 'daughters', perfect golden curls crowning his head and, when he came close enough to stand in front of Penthesileia and Theraichme, revealed his daughter shared his gray eyes. The firelight catching in his hair and bronze armour gleamed with more than mortal light, and Penthesileia had to restrain herself until she was practically vibrating, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.

"My daughter," Ares said, both hands coming to clasp Penthesileia by her cheeks for a brief, gentle moment. Then he let go and the punch they gave each other to the spot above their hearts would surely have toppled anyone lesser, Amazon or not, man or woman. Penthesileia whooped and, for a moment, took her arm back from Theraichme's shoulders to throw herself at her father. Ares swung her around as if she weighed nothing and was no taller than his knees, a grin on his face.

"It's great to see you so close to Troy and impending battle, Father!" Penthesileia hugged him close before she let go and was put down on her feet, practically beaming even if there was a proud, ruthless edge to the happiness. It melted away as she pulled Theraichme close to her again and looked down, meeting those blue eyes with a look soft as rabbit fur. She couldn't help it. Not when it came to Theraichme. Theraichme's smile was bright and lit her up from the inside, and Penthesileia would have torn down cities for that look. Shaking her head, she looked to Ares again. "It’s a blessing and portent of our coming glory. And this is my lover, Theraichme."

Theraichme trembled against her briefly, tender and fearful like a rabbit hiding from a searching fox under a rock or bush, it’s soft little nose moving incessantly to keep track of the predator. But then, like Penthesileia had known she would, she straightened up, stuck her chin out as much as she eased her shoulders down in a greeting.

"Lord Ares."

No one could see the hand Theraichme had hidden behind Penthesileia's back, clutching the back of her tunic and twisting the fabric a little, and Penthesileia would hardly tell. It was hardly a shame to be nervous to be standing in front of the lord of war and bloodshed, even when you were Thracian... as well as involved with one of said god's flesh and blood daughters. But Theraichme was standing in front of Ares with straight back and raised head, and though she didn't meet his steel-gleaming gaze, that was hardly a mark against the courage she was showing. Something which, of course, was his domain as well, and after a cold, hard moment of watching her, Ares chuckled and lightly tapped her about the head.

"Theraichme, who Artemis delights in. I look forward to seeing you apply your skills with the bow on the battlefield as well, but given my daughter's interest in you, I can't see it be anything but impressive." He paused, looking the small and slim, but wiry Thracian up and down again, with her light brown hair up in a high ponytail and pinned at the back of her head for travel, though most of that was hidden under the same sort of cap Penthesileia had thrown away from herself. "And if you make Penthesileia happy, I'm well-pleased with you even before any proof of prowess."

"That's all I want to be able to do for her, and I couldn't ask for anything more," Theraichme said, but Penthesileia pinched her shoulder and smirked down at her when Theraichme jumped, hissing as she glared up at her. She mouthed 'ridiculous girl' down at her lover and Theraichme looked away with a snort, cheeks faintly but obviously pink, and there was a little smile now lurking at the corner of her lips. Yeah, she'd known that was what Theraichme hadn't dared to say to her father. 'Your daughter is a ridiculous girl but that's all I want to do for her'. At least that made her forget to be so tense in front of Ares, so Penthesileia counted it as a victory.

"Good." Ares nodded, shifted over to stand beside Penthesileia with his hand on her shoulder, and when he drew breath the air all around them stilled. "Amazons! Children of Thrax!"

He'd raised his voice, but despite that he wasn't shouting, it was clear every single person in the whole force, even scattered out throughout the vast camp, heard him. Penthesileia closed her eyes, soaking up the warm weight of her father's hand on her shoulder as much as the ringing force of his voice, feeling content. There was Theraichme against her side under one arm, her father at her other, and there would be fighting soon. It clearly was a sign that he'd come tonight, so close to them reaching Troy.

"You are all great warriors, capable of feats I ever delight in! The war around sacred Ilion has demanded many lives, and some of you will offer yet more; know not a single drop of blood or life spilled will go unnoticed. You are all children of my heart and hand, honouring me with the havoc you sow in the path of battle! My daughter goes with you, and with her my blessing. Crush your enemies and give peace back to Troy, and by such deeds be worthy of the land you live in, the land I hold highest in my heart!"

A quiet ripple of noise that grew into a roar rose through the camp, and Ares stood quiet, a great sentry in the middle of a storm, until the camp was quiet again.

"Daughters! Show the men of Achaea exactly what it means to have enemies among the Amazons!"

Laughter and hooting whoops exploded from around the Amazon camp, arrayed in an expanding circle around the center of Penthesileia's fire. As the three sat down, the noise around them slowly quieted as order - and, more importantly, the desire for food - established itself again. Penthesileia reached for the plate Theraichme had put on her lap again, picking up a morsel and shoving it in her mouth to get her to stop that twitching glance between herself and her father, for poor Theraichme didn't seem to know what to do just then. It was all taken care of; another Amazon came up to them and offered Ares a cup filled with newly made kykeon, and he took it with a pleased grunt. That, at least, seemed to settle Theraichme too, even enough so she felt in fine enough humour to retaliate and shove a piece of meat into her mouth in return. Penthesileia chuckled around the food and slapped her lover's knee, then wrapped her arm around her again.

This was a fine night, and she would enjoy it to the fullest.

The Thracians, Amazon and not, arrived at Troy to a funeral. It'd rained the whole day as they'd marched that last slogging distance, a fine, crying drizzle that, though it kept them from being soaked for hours, still had them wet to the bone by the end of the day. Penthesileia knelt by the feet of the king and queen of Troy and promised them that she would avenge their oldest son's death. For while he was a man and that meant little to her, the sorrow of a parent cut her deep; she'd not seen her mother mourn her older sisters, dead as they'd been before her birth, but it was evident in every letter Otrera sent, in her gestures and voice and words any of the times Penthesileia had visited Themiscyra. So she would kill for them, kill for a worthy warrior laid low too early, and show the Achaeans that not only they had the offspring of one of the Deathless Ones on their side, and what that meant.

She understood Achilles wasn't the only one present, but it was clear he was the one who shone like a star, a meteor burning the land as it passed through the sky. The others did not carry the gleaming burden of their divine parent so clearly as either Achilles or Penthesileia did. Proof of that certainly came the next day.

"Stay on the chariot unless you absolutely have to get off, all right?" Pulling her horse to a stop next to the chariot Theraichme had just gotten up on, Penthesileia leaned over and down a little towards her, their helmets bumping together. Theraichme rolled her eyes, but Penthesileia could see the grip she had on her curved bow, and so she leaned in a little more, her horse shifting against the tipping weight. Penthesileia didn't doubt Theraichme's skill with a bow, or believe that she somehow would fail and prove weak-hearted now that battle had come, but this would still be Theraichme's first. There really was no way to prepare for that.

"Even if I would end up briefly stranded, you ridiculous girl, you've taught me sword fighting yourself, and I have my axe."A slender hand, her fingers cold in contrast to the smile on Theraichme's face, came up to briefly cup Penthesileia's cheek. Penthesileia scoffed, straightening up even if she also caught that hand, kissing the fingers.

"And you're skilled with both. _Still_ , the bow is your best weapon, make use of that."

They stared at each other for a moment longer, then Penthesileia turned forward as a battle cry, many-tongued and coloured by the vast array of languages in the army protecting Troy, rose up around them, spreading out through the army like a wave over the ocean. A small shield on one arm, battle-axes in both hands and reins in one, she urged her horse forward with her knees. Penthesileia’s own voice rose with the cry around them and stirred her Amazons to join in and add their own cadence to the war song.

Lurching forward but without any jittering steps, horse and rider - the only pair the field, though there were a couple of Amazonian mounted archer pairs to add to the confusion of battle - took easy point. Penthesileia might wish to hang back around Theraichme's chariot, but she would do better for her Amazons and everyone else fighting for Troy if she kept herself mobile. So that's exactly what she did, ducking a thrown spear here, yanking her horse to a stop to thwart another one there - once or twice she used her shield and the simple strength of her arm to sweep the spear away from her, leaving the bronze gleaming in the sunlight as the spear tumbled away and horror on the face of any man who'd seen her do it. Laughing, Penthesileia ignored the spray of blood spattering her face and armour and the leopard's skin falling from her shoulders as she charged. Ignored, too, the mud churned up around her horse's hooves as she swung her axes, usually only the one, but sometimes she let go of the reins to hack around her with both. 

They would all learn what it meant to face the child of one of the Deathless Ones, and more than that, a daughter of Ares, seated at point in front of her Amazons.

They probably hadn't thought any Amazons would come to Troy's aid, but Priam fighting against Amazons in his youth had nothing to do with Penthesileia and her city in Thrace, a colony established shortly after her birth. Even if it had touched her, the Amazons the king of Troy had fought against hadn't been from Otrera's city. More damning than that they'd currently been... disagreeing with the queen of Themiscyra. They'd quite changed their tune when the other two cities had let them burn alone, and the survivors had been more amenable to settling their differences.

History, that.

At some point, this battle would be history too. But there was blood thundering in her ears, screams echoing around her horse, and the flash of sunlight on metal as bronze was swung around by strong, capable hands. Yanking one axe out of the head of a man who'd thought her waist was vulnerable but trusted luck, speed, and his hard, layered leather cap to protect him, Penthesileia swung her horse sideways, around the bulk of an upturned chariot. Her horse reared and kicked another Achaean soldier who thought she couldn't see him approaching with her arm lifted just so for the shield to be in the way of her line of sight. She followed the hoofed kick with one of her own, cracking his jaw, and then crushed his collarbone with a swing of her axe and yanked her mount around---

Too late.

Or rather, the man hadn't been aiming for her, but rather her horse.

"Dog!" Penthesileia jumped off her poor mount, which sank to the ground with a burbling protest of a whinny, its throat cut. Furious, she stepped around the slack head with its long tongue lolling out and charged him, twisting her arm up to let her shield take the sword and punched through his layered shield with the head of her axe. He seemed quite shocked she managed it. It _was_ a very thick and well-made shield, certainly. Grinning grimly, she peered down at him around the edge of his large, round shield, his sword biting deep into her own. It wouldn't serve much after this battle, but that was fine. "Who are you, to use such tactics?"

It wasn't a bad strategy - everyone else had been busy aiming either spear or sword at Penthesileia herself, ignoring her horse or too afraid of flying hooves to aim at him. If only this one, too, had been.

"Diomedes, son of Tydeus," Diomedes said, eyeing her as he pulled his sword out of her shield and Penthesileia yanked her axe out of his, metal ringing against metal, "and I wouldn't have expected a Thracian youth of such fair face to have such a strong arm; even fleet-footed Achilles himself could scarce compete when he was your age and draped like a maid."

It was hard to tell if that was supposed to be an insult or not, but Penthesileia laughed and swung, forcing Diomedes into moving, and ducked under his feint entirely. "Youth, oh great lord of Argos? I'm just into my third decade, and the dresses of your Achaean maids aren't for an Amazon! I am Penthesileia, daughter of Queen Otrera of Themiscyra and Lord Ares, though I call Thrace my home, and not the cities on the Thermodon."

Diomedes didn't let himself be intimidated by this proclamation, though there was no hiding the brief widening of his eyes, not even half-hidden under the shadows cast by the rim of the helmet as they were. Penthesileia smiled wolfishly and lunged much the same, and though drawing her sword might have been a shade easier, she saw no reason to do so. She could hold him off - more than that, could _kill him_ like this, though Diomedes of Argos was certainly a great warrior in his own right. Just not great enough. Not against a daughter of Ares who was directly descended from the first daughter Ares and the nymph Harmonia had begot, the very beginning of the Amazons. Not against a warrior who moved quick as the beating wings of birds in desperate flight, and whose smooth skin covered flexing muscles worthy of any hard-working oxen, yoked under the plough to carve furrows out of a reluctant field.

Penthesileia swung her battle axe again, and though the divinely wrought cuirass might have been trusted to ward off the blow, Diomedes sacrificed another hole in his shield instead while he finally cut Penthesileia's small, round shield in half; left was only a half-moon piece of wood not half as useful. They smiled at each other, grim and ecstatic for the killing they were attempting of each other. Penthesileia yanked her axe out, Diomedes thrust his sword forward in a furious lunge. Penthesileia twisted, but yet didn't move quite fast enough, though she didn't flinch from the fine cut into her upper arm, thin as it was. Diomedes paid more dearly than she, for she hadn't bothered to draw her arm far back, and she hadn't turned _away_ from him to steal distance from his strike. Shoulder pressed against his shield, Penthesileia smiled down at Diomedes over the edge of it and pulled her axe out of the meaty part of his upper arm.

Blood followed, revealing a glint of white bone in the depths of the cut.

"I will make you pay for your cleverness in killing my steed, son of Tydeus," Penthesileia snapped, following Diomedes as he staggered back a step, trying for distance with his sword arm, at the moment, almost entirely useless. Above them, threatening the sun like the Achaeans were threatening the city bracketed by its two fair rivers, clouds were towering up and closing in, a rare possibility of rain for the season. The two warriors saw them not, though Penthesileia was doing her best impression as of Iris watering the clouds through watering the ground with Diomedes' blood. He was not without assistance, though he didn't have the time to call for aid; the greater Aias had seen him and was practically shoving men out of his way when the clouds above opened up like a punch to the gut.

The rain was ice cold.

Not a warrior on the field didn't gasp in shock and stagger under the unexpected, cold deluge, coming down so hard it was nearly impossible to see anything at all even just beyond one's nose. Blinking past the curtain of water cascading down the rim of her helmet, Penthesileia frowned and took a step forward.

"Go back to Troy, my daughter. Gray-eyed Pallas has gained succor for her favourite, but since death isn't yet for either of you, Father Zeus chose this way to cut the fighting short for today," Ares grunted into her ear, a touch briefly felt on her shoulder, and Penthesileia scoffed but backed away. 

It rankled - she had _had him_ \- but this meant she could find Theraichme before darkness falling would have parted the armies out of necessity. She couldn't deny she'd wished to see her since the last time she saw Theraichme dashing past on her chariot, which was a worryingly long time ago. Chest hot with love and worried desperation both, unexpectedly blooming up as if Kythereia herself had touched her with need, Penthesileia turned and ran. The rain seemed less in the direction of Troy, though any attempt, if it had indeed been attempted, to turn back to where the armies had been clashing, towards the wall and the ships, would be met with rain so heavy as to be practically impassable. There would be no more fighting today.

"Theraichme!" 

It was somewhat ridiculous, shouting into the rain while she slogged towards the distant walls of Troy, for she could barely be heard above the roar of falling water. To be quiet was impossible, however. Any and all battle-lust was now quite literally cooled off and the day's possible strategies and tactics was washing away by the falling water turning the battlefield into a cold, muddy lake that was beginning to push corpses, dark and swollen, free of their unfinished graves. Penthesileia could now think of nothing but finding Theraichme again. If she was dead... or, even just injured... she had no idea what she'd do, then. She'd lost one lover to battle, and the reminder that it could happen again turned her breath aching and short. It was a risk they took in their lives, and that was acceptable, but it didn't make it hurt any less when it happened.

" _Theraich_ \---!"

"Penthesileia!" 

A chariot thundered close through the rain and Penthesileia felt as if she could lift off the ground, no longer so heavy as to be tied to the rules of Earth upon seeing that drenched, dripping face behind Hippothoe's slight, strong-armed body. Theraichme practically launched herself from the chariot before it'd been brought to a stop, and Penthesileia stopped and threw her arms out, catching Theraichme and swinging her around. The rising water and thick layer of sucking mud threatened her balance, but it was a small matter to keep her feet, and Penthesileia smothered their relieved laughter in a kiss. Shifting Theraichme around so she was cradling her in her arms, she walked up to the chariot without looking or pulling away from the kiss.

"You have done splendidly, my eyes, my heart, and I couldn't be more pleased to see you," Penthesileia murmured against Theraichme's lips, kissing her between each endearment and their mingled breath hot against chilled skin, "you aren't hurt?"

"Ridiculous, silly girl! I can see that cut. You're the one who's injured! No, I'm not hurt; I have been safer than most throughout the battle thanks to Hippothoe!" Theraichme laughed, nodding to her charioteer who gave a one-shoulder shrug, her flash of a smile just barely seen, focused as she was on driving the horses back to Troy. "You can put me down now, you know. It might get a little cramped, but the chariot should be large enough for the three of us for this short ride."

Despite that being what Theraichme was saying, she instead clung more tightly to Penthesileia, who, both obliging Theraichme and obeying her own needy heart, simply hugged her closer. "I don't think I will. And as for my injury, don't concern yourself, my most beloved heart. It's a scratch only, though I'll have it seen to after the necessities are dealt with."

Dealing with the 'necessities' took several hours, for the things Penthesileia needed to deal with was her Amazons, their shelter and their injures; who was dead and who wasn't, then a bath and dry clothes and food. Much too long, in both of their opinions, before they were alone in the room King Priam had given Penthesileia, before they were sitting on the bed, Theraichme behind Penthesileia, a comb going through her wavy, dark mass of hair. Theraichme's hands were gentle and clever, strange calluses to match her chosen profession with a bow on her fingers, and Penthesileia could feel her breathe as close as Theraichme was sitting behind her, legs on each side of her. Eyes closed, she listened to each and every faint breath, the shift of Theraichme's chest rising and falling with it, just barely beyond touching her back. Breathing. Life. It was reassuring as well as soothing.

Theraichme abandoned the comb, though Penthesileia's grunted protest mellowed out into a sigh that was nearly a moan when those strong, short fingers dug into her thick hair to reach the scalp.

"Oh--- _Theraichme_." Groaning, Penthesileia closed her eyes through no real will of her own and leaned back against her lover. She stilled, not so much surprised as not expecting it, when Theraichme slumped over her, her face hidden against the crown of Penthesileia's head. "What---"

"I was so afraid, Penthesileia. So afraid, and I'm ashamed of it. I thought I would die. I thought _you_ would die, that you were dead when I didn't see you for so long---"

The hands in her hair, still gently massaging, wasn't worth it to remain where and as she was. A wounded noise caught in the back of her throat that turned into an exasperated growl, Penthesileia twisted around and bore Theraichme down to the mattress, trapping that small body under her own, her hands clutching trim shoulders. Her hair was a dark curtain around them, a waterfall to match how the battle today had ended, though the rain outside had stopped around sundown, when there was too little time to gather the host again before dark.

"Me, dead? I think I will see you burned and buried in old age before you see me falling for anyone's blade!" There was no smile on Penthesileia's face to match the confident intensity of her proclamation, only the burning seriousness of her eyes, the stiff corners of her mouth, teeth nearly bared as if that would make Theraichme believe her more. "My father is the manslaying god himself, and he has gifted me with much of his terrible skill and strength. Worry not for me, my heart, most beloved, for I will bring many a kill yet to your feet so you can praise me for it."

Now, Penthesileia smiled, toothy and bright and teasing, her gray eyes flashing brightly in the lamp-lit half-shadow of the room. Theraichme laughed, wavering at first but strengthening and awkwardly shoved at her lover. Both ignored Theraichme’s trembling hands.

"I don't need a wildcat to bring me bloody prey to my bed in the mornings, I hunt very well myself! Ridiculous. Talking of great, clawed and toothed cats, though; get rid of this, my eyes." Pointedly, Theraichme tugged on the dangling end of a furry paw where the leopard skin Penthesileia wore was tied around her throat. "I'll be sleeping with a woman, or you shall have to sleep on the floor, like all cats do."

"I will, will I?" Penthesileia huffed, but she straightened up and untied the pelt, dropping it off the side of the bed. Then she sat there on Theraichme's hips, firmly muscled thighs clamped down around the narrow spread of them, and stared. Eyes wide and endless, her gentle mouth soft around the bare peek of teeth, Penthesileia stared without moving, so still she seemed a statue.

"... Penthesileia?" Theraichme frowned, reaching up only after several long, quiet moments. She didn't reach anything at all to touch, for Penthesileia snatched her hand and kissed the back of it, her knuckles, then her fingertips, a fury of breathless little kisses before she descended as mercilessly as only a blizzard in deepest winter could, coming roaring down over a city from the heights of a nearby mountain. Clutching at Theraichme's shoulders, then her cheeks, she kissed her until they were both flushed and breathless, lips tender and plush - Theraichme's more so, what with Penthesileia's use of teeth.

"My darling, my eyes, my most beloved heart. If you should be ashamed for feeling fear, then I have to confess to the same, and so there's no reason for shame," Penthesileia whispered fiercely against that wide, soft mouth, still clutching at Theraichme's face, and though it was brief, Penthesileia's hands trembled for a moment as well. "I am so proud of you, but you made me fear more for your life than my own, out there today, Theraichme. If I could have stayed beside you, I would have. I want you. I _need_ you."

Furious intensity turned Penthesileia's voice harsh, and Theraichme shuddered, though this time not from fear or shame or relief, but something that sat deeper, further down than in her sparrow-wing heart. Running her hands down Penthesileia's sides, Theraichme squeezed her hips, slid them around. Couldn't quite reach to squeeze her full ass like she had her hips, but smiled still as she caressed what she could reach, her eyes full of stars.

"I'm right here, you ridiculous girl. You can have me all you want. Let me just tie off your hair---"

Penthesileia growled and straightened up, quickly and messily braiding her hair and taking the strip of ribbon handed to her. Tossing the braid over her shoulder, Penthesileia bent down over Theraichme like a hunting cat leaping to pin its prey, and devoured Theraichme's mouth in much the same way. Words were not enough any longer; the relief for both of them to see the other alive after Theraichme's first battle had to be expressed in a more primal manner.

They'd survived today, but for all of Penthesileia's confidence, borne on the wings of her divine parentage and both of their skill, they were both well aware that survival tomorrow wasn't guaranteed.

###### 

When Zeus had put Diomedes and Penthesileia's lives in the scale, Ares had braced himself for disappointment. More than that, braced himself also for the humiliation of asking for his daughter's life in front of the council and to be denied. Instead the scales had landed even, declaring it not necessarily time for either warrior to die. It had brought hope as well as the strengthening surety that he would have to humiliate himself. But for one of his Amazon daughters, he would do precisely that. Ares had opened his mouth just as Athena raised her voice, but Zeus had held a hand up as he stared at the scales and then shook his head. It was a wonder Olympos didn't tremble for the shifting weight in that gesture.

"The even scales will be even for today's fighting as well as for these two lives. I'll cut the battle short early."

And Zeus had; drenching the battlefield and inundating Skamandros and Simoeis, parting the two armies as surely as thunder would have.

It was a brief reprieve, if that. Ares had stared at the scales, raised his eyes and met Athena's gaze. They'd been so flat, so displeased - as if an even outcome was as terrible as an unequivocal loss. Probably was, when Ares and one of his children was involved. Shooting her a sneer, he'd left before Athena did, undoubtedly to make sure the injury Penthesileia had given Diomedes wouldn't hinder him in the battles to come. She was undoubtedly just sour her favourite little warrior hadn't gotten the honour of killing an Amazon queen and one of Ares' daughters. As if! Even their father would have known Diomedes wouldn't have been worthy of that, wouldn't have had the skill and shouldn't be given the honour! Ares didn't doubt he wouldn't have put it like that, and would have found some way to indulge Athena as much as possible anyway, perhaps even as far as allowing Diomedes to kill what he had no right to kill, Penthesileia far better than he, but at least it hadn't come to that. 

Not either of their time, just yet.

Ares watched Theraichme drape the leopard skin around Penthesileia's armoured shoulders and tie it into place with a kiss to her jaw. She had to rise up on tip-toe to reach when his daughter didn't lean down to help, a little grin on her face and earning a slap to her chest for the tease. Not her time just yet, but that had been yesterday, and today... Ares looked away towards the Achaean camp, knowing there was someone there who would have the skill and right to kill her.

It was a wonder Penthesileia and Achilles hadn't run across each other on the battlefield yesterday. The thick fighting and many deaths around his daughter ought to have drawn Achilles like a moth to flame and, honestly, the same in reverse. Luck and distance had kept the two separated... as well as a bit of tweaking of circumstances with his own powers. Not that Ares doubted Penthesileia could take Achilles, for he thought she could; normally, they would both have an equal chance to kill each other. Normally. Achilles was Apollo's kill, however, and he hadn't approached Ares to ask to borrow his daughter for it. It wasn't Achilles time to die just yet, though death and fate laid as thickly over the battlefield as the Keres stalking among the dying warriors, concentrated around Thetis' son like a bloody mist.

Penthesileia and her lover parted but slowly, their tangled fingers clinging unto the very last. Ares sighed as he watched Penthesileia stride on foot to the head of her Amazonian force while Theraichme got up on the chariot again, staring after his daughter with wide, longing eyes. Then she sighed and shuttered them, drawing determination around herself like she'd drawn the leopard skin around Penthesileia's shoulders. She was proving to be not just beloved of his daughter's heart, but a good warrior as well. Ares, watching as the chariot was set into motion, wondered if he would have to grieve his daughter, or console her for Theraichme's death first. He would rather want for neither, but he’d take the latter before the former. A battlefield was a battlefield, nevermind one as cruel as this one, and there was a weight around both of them which could be either of their death. He could not yet see which it was.

Ares restrained himself from going before his daughter - she didn't need the help, cleaving through the warriors on the field like a peasant harvesting corn. Machaon fell to one of her axes, and more fell after him, to Penthesileia as well as her Amazons, and Ares could not have been more pleased for his daughters, by blood or no. Then, though, Ares stood, still in the middle of shifting battle, and watched his daughter clash with one of his sons. 

He should part them. He did not.

In some ways, this seemed the better course; if either Askalaphos or Penthesileia should die on this battlefield, why would it not be to the other? They were both beloved of his heart, their skill and prowess preceding them, and it was as fair of a fight as it could be. So Penthesileia killed her half-brother without knowing she did so, the two being far too caught up in actual fighting to bother to introduce themselves. Ares crossed the still-drying mud and crushed grass and knelt by his son, a hand against his cooling cheek.

"You fought well, Askalaphos," he murmured, his chest heavy but not weighted by endless fury. Yes, this was the better course, for there were few to none among the great warriors of the Trojans and their allies that he would have countenanced to kill a son of his, now that Hektor was dead. None of them would have deserved the kill. Unseen and unknown, the war god's presence kept any of the Trojans away from the corpse until Ialmenos, crying but determined, could drag his brother off the ground and onto his chariot, to bring him back to the camp for later burial. Ares leaned in and clasped his surviving son around his shoulder, breathing over him. 

"Avenge your brother, but keep away from the Amazon queen."

He would not lose both of his sons, and it was clear his daughter was the stronger among the three that were now two.

The day drew on, glorious, terrible bloodshed spilled around the god of war while Eris and Enyo dipped into the fighting like hunting sea birds catching fish, and he revelled in it. Especially so as Penthesileia was tearing the Achaeans up on one side, Achilles the Trojans and their allies on the other, and it seemed like they would not meet. But as the sun grew old and bled onto the battlefield like the blood that had soaked into the drying mud to colour the whole plain faintly red, the armies shifted. Achilles and Penthesileia stopped, she still on foot, he on his chariot, facing each other over an empty stretch of ground. Behind the gleaming vision of near-divine, tearful fury that was Achilles stood Athena, and Ares knew he'd let himself hope where he shouldn't have. That didn't mean this was a given outcome, though. Surely not. There were ways the two could be separated...

They bellowed like angry bulls, the two of them, and surged towards each other. Achilles leaped from his chariot with an unerringly perfect throw of his spear, and Penthesileia proved her strength and reflexes both as she simply swept it out of the way with her shield. 

She put her axes away and drew her sword instead, meeting that strike of the gleaming length of bronze with one of her own, and the ringing echo of the blades impacting shuddered near-visibly through the air. If they'd been gods, the soldiers closest to them would have staggered from the wall of sound, the force of strength. As it was, they still hacked at each other with a speed almost too quick for human reflexes - Ares doubted either Penthesileia or Achilles noticed what they were doing, their eyes narrowed and flashing, teeth bared in grim snarls and yet so very struck by awe by each other. Feints almost slid past one or the other so smoothly while the two warriors stepped past each other, as if they were dancing in a loving imitation of war at a festival and not enacting the most purest manifestation of it out on a battlefield that'd seen many men fall on it, for honour and glory. Sparks flew at nearly every thrust hitting home against the other blade; Achilles' shield rang like a bell with every strike warded off.

They were fury and awful, terrible beauty, poetry edged in bronzed death.

Achilles grunted as he rammed into Penthesileia shield first, shoving her to the ground. He followed it up with a stab that sank his sword halfway into the ground and left a thin, arcing ribbon of blood flying through the air from the cut he'd dealt to her arm as she rolled out of the way. She kicked his leg, warding off a follow-up blow so she could get to her feet, though Achilles had to use that time to pull his sword out of the ground. Penthesileia feinted and pulled it at last moment, thrusting downwards - Achilles yanked his leg out of the way to spare himself a slow death from the large vein in his thigh being breached and instead only sacrificing a cut much like Penthesileia's as her sword glanced over his knee.

"You're fast, son of Thetis!" Penthesileia laughed, giddy but glowering, their blades locked with each other as they strained, muscles tense enough it was a wonder their tanned skin didn't burst. Around them, there was an empty stretch of ground, for no one dared to come too close. A couple had already almost died from blows not even meant for them when they passed near the twinned whirlwind that was the son of silver-shod Thetis and daughter of great Ares.

"And you're certainly strong enough I wouldn't believe you to be anything but a daughter of Ares. Diomedes told the kings of Achaea about you," Achilles said with a grunt, grinning past the gritted strain until they had to fall apart, each thrusting out at the same time, jerking their heads back. Gleaming points of metal lit by dying sunlight hovered by bare breath away from one eye each, one gray, the other blue. Slowly, two twinned drops of blood bubbled up and slid down - the one along the curving thrust of Penthesileia's nose, the other from the top of Achilles' cheekbone under his eye.

"Did he lose his arm?" Idle curiosity wrapped in vicious pleasure at the idea as the two pulled away, taking their swords back, circling each other like starving wolves fighting each other over the last, rotting scraps of a more successful hunter's kill in the depths of cruel winter.

"Gray-eyed Paeonia brought ambrosia and made sure the son of Tydeus was fit to fight this morning again," Achilles said with a shrug, not caring enough to be smug or mocking over it. Penthesileia scoffed and swiped at her opponent, scoring his shield instead of the gleaming cuirass.

They were so evenly matched it seemed a crime they should have to be parted by darkness or death. Ares fancied for a moment a way to lock them eternally in battle, steal them away from the battlefield and have them play the conflict out unceasingly. It was but an impossible fancy, something to distract from the gathering tension, the awareness that Penthesileia could not be Achilles' bane, and yet, as long as they both lived, she would be obliged by pride and protective need both to seek him out. She could one-handedly hold the Achaeans' greatest warrior up and leave the fight more even for the rest, and that, then, was why Ares knew, deep down though not acknowledged, that this would not be allowed to continue.

The problem was also that Penthesileia could easily, with the smallest of mistakes from Achilles or even by accident, by her own skill and strength because Achilles was weighed even with her, compared to practically anyone else on this battlefield, cripple him enough he might be rendered helpless. That, too, wouldn’t be allowed. Certainly not yet. Still, Athena's sudden appearance right beside Penthesileia, hooking a foot around one of her legs and grabbing her by the wrist of her sword arm, was a surprise to Ares as well as Penthesileia, though she saw the goddess not.

"Athe---!"

"This is war, Ares, and Achilles has his fate."

Zeus must have given her leave. He'd lost sight of her at some point during the fight, he'd been too focused on his daughter and Achilles, the beautiful, deadly dance and the bloodlust surrounding them. She could very easily have gone to Olympos and then come back down without him noticing, or even been called up.

This wasn't fair.

Penthesileia's eyes widened, confusion and then terror as she realized she couldn't move, and Ares snarled, opened his mouth even as he grabbed the air, pulling his sword out of it. Achilles got there before him, quicker than divine will, quicker than breath. He thrust, and with Penthesileia unable to counter it, her raised shield was not enough protection. Divinely wrought sword sheared through the heavy, but small, oaken shield covered with a layer of copper on the outer side like it was nothing but the flesh behind the shield, behind the armour Penthesileia wore.

Blood followed.

Penthesileia coughed, spewing blood on Achilles’ hand, against the back of her shield. Ares heard the choked, bubbling whisper clinging to each hacking spurt as Achilles drove the sword deeper into her chest. A plea, a call for her father.

He could do nothing.

Athena met Ares' burning stare over the shuddering body of his dying daughter and let go of her hand, of her legs. Now free of the divine restraint, Penthesileia folded over Achilles' sword like she was made of wet clay, the skull-cap helmet hitting Achilles' armoured shoulder with a reverberating clang. Then her weight pulled her off his sword as she slid backwards, and her impact on the ground might as well have been like Ares himself falling.

" _Penthesileia_!"

The scream echoed over the battlefield, in his head, but Ares paid no attention to it at first. No, he was staring at Achilles, his sword coated and dripping with all too mortal blood. His daughter's blood. Achilles, who knelt down next to Penthesileia, reaching out.

"Do not touch my daughter, son of Peleus," Ares snarled in his ear, each word weighted by his fury and loss. Ares didn't let himself be seen, only heard, and the startled glance around before Achilles froze was gratifying. He was clever enough to yank his hand back as if burned, enough at least that it only hovered above Penthesileia's pale face without touching, her lips spattered with blood. Achilles stayed there, staring down at her, having a moment of respite as the warriors around them were stunned still. With her face turned up to the burning sky, Penthesileia’s face was in full view, and the gore didn’t insult it.

"What now, is the great Achilles brought up helpless and immobile by his fair opponent? You look like you'd like to strip her naked right here on the battlefield an---" Thersites screamed as Achilles reared up, whirling around and doing Ares the tiniest of favours by getting rid of the disgusting loudmouth.

"Penthesileia!"

That scream again, shrill with fury and sorrow. It pierced the battle-din like a falcon's hunting cry, craving blood. Familiar, too. Ares turned, looking over the heads of the men struggling around him, and realized it was Penthesileia's lover. Theraichme looked as pale as his dead daughter, with her cheeks sharply flushed in contrast, as if she, too, was bleeding. She was cutting her way through the men with singular intent, hacking with desperation rather than skill as her fevered eyes flicked between the corpse on the muddy, bloodied ground and Achilles' back.

She wanted to kill him.

Ares wanted her to kill him too, but compared to Penthesileia, Theraichme wouldn't stand a chance, not even if divinely endowed. _Her_ Athena wouldn’t need to restrain to ensure Achilles lived unharmed to see the death of yet more Trojans as well as Apollo's revenge. Ares stood there by his daughter's corpse, watching Theraichme advance, and was torn. Penthesileia would want Theraichme to survive. Ares, as well as Theraichme herself, undoubtedly wanted Achilles dead, as well as as many Achaeans as she could kill. If he let her go after Achilles, however, she would die, and he would ill-serve the probable last wish of his glorious daughter. That didn't mean he could not let both of them have at least a little of what they wanted.

"Athena."

She heard him and came back from wherever she'd been on the battlefield - probably beside Odysseus or Diomedes - arching an eyebrow under her bronze boar's tusk helmet, the aegis glittering over her chest.

"Make sure Achilles leaves my daughter's body." He couldn’t do it - he'd do something that would have him chased away from the battlefield, by _either_ of his parents, so it had to be Athena. She looked between Theraichme and Penthesileia, gray eyes inscrutable for a moment, and then they warmed, just a little.

"I can do that. She was a great warrior, Ares."

Gritting his teeth and glaring at the ground, fists trembling at his sides, Ares said nothing. He couldn't. If he did, he would ruin it and Athena would refuse his request. So he said nothing and strode forward to meet Theraichme instead, reluctantly leaving Penthesileia's body behind. Leaned in over Theraichme and breathed into her, tapping her gently on the crown of her helmet, a feathery brush down her arm. She paused, shuddering, then straightened up again, eyes glowing fever-bright and teeth bared in a snarl. There was eldritch fire crowning her helmet and shoulders.

She might not have been skilled enough with a sword to last long out of a chariot normally, but now she would effortlessly protect Penthesileia's body so it could be taken to safety. And then she would kill any and as many Achaeans as she could get her hands on, believing them to be Achilles. It would have to do. For if he didn't do it this way, she would try to search her lover's killer out, and then she would die. This way, Theraichme would survive to bring news of their queen's death back to the Amazon colony in Thrace. This way, his daughter's lover would survive, even if she would grieve, which would be what Penthesileia would want.

Theraichme screamed in raw, wordless animal fury that echoed across the battlefield, lunging like a lioness grieving her cubs' death at the first Achaean soldier foolish enough to try and dart in to drag the dead Amazon queen away to plunder her body. He fell with a single thrust of Theraichme's sword through his neck, and she kicked him away with divinely given strength so that he fell to the ground several body-lengths away from Penthesileia's body. No one but those who would treat her body with honour and care would touch Penthesileia. 

Ares stepped back, arms crossed over his chest and his sword gone again, and made sure Theraichme spilled the blood they both craved. The amount of it would simply have to make up for the lack of the particular blood they wished it to be. It wasn't enough, but it’d have to be. Later, Theraichme could cry into Hippothoe's shoulder, and all the Amazons left would ensure she would get back to the city and Penthesileia's daughter, currently in the care of her former nurse.

It wasn't enough, and it wasn't fair, but it was what it had to be.


	7. Death of Heroes: Achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A father's furious retribution kills Achilles, and his mother is left to grieve.

Today, Achilles died.

Today, Apollo would get restitution for the sacrilege of one son's murder and the inglorious killing of another son. Tenes had at least been matched to Achilles in being armed, and somewhat older besides, but he had not been armoured or ready. Achilles attempting to assault Hemithea and then probably dragging her off to the ships before joining the assault on Tenedos had been a surprise to the siblings. At least Apollo had had the chance to take Hemithea off elsewhere, assuring she avoided the fate of many of the women of Tenedos after it was captured. It would not make his son any less dead, but it at least honoured the sacrifice Tenes had made for his sister. It was, also, undoubtedly what Tenes would have wished.

Today, finally, he would have what he'd been wanting since he'd gently put a crying Hemithea down in Delphi, knowing Tenes had died for her, for the fruitless defense of Tenedos. He would have what had been forbidden to him when he'd manifested in his temple and seen young Troilus on the floor, mutilated and his statue washed with his son's blood. Just the thought brought a tremble to his hands as he manifested invisibly inside Achilles’ tent, stepping up to the bed. If Apollo had been allowed to, he would have given in to the urge to reach out and simply strangle the sleeping Achilles right there in his bed, an inglorious death for a murderer of a just barely fourteen year old unarmed boy, a boy Achilles had killed _in his father's temple_. 

Not yet. Not yet, he couldn't, for Achilles had been promised glory for his short life, and thus glory he would have.

Glory. For all that he was the son of a goddess, Achilles was as vulnerable to the foibles of men as any mortal human. There were more ways to live a worthy life than renown in war. Not that it was strange he couldn’t see further than that; it was baked and woven into the threads of society so that all the men, but most especially those of a particular privilege and status wore it without noticing, breathed it like air. Honour and the gifts involved made the man, the society they lived in. It was understandable, and proved Achilles as human as he probably didn’t feel himself to be sometimes.

Today, then, was Achilles' last day alive, though even that would come at a dear price for the Trojans and their allies. Apollo sighed past gritted teeth as he stared down at the sleeping man, curled around a slim, dark-haired young woman - Hippodameia, wasn't it? - his face buried against her neck. If hair could strangle him, Achilles would have been dead. Perhaps with Patroklos dead, he might have preferred it, though still helplessly hunting for his glory and honour, to make both his and Patroklos’ deaths worth it. It was funny, almost. Achilles could have avoided all this. Could have had Patroklos still alive, could have lived these past fifteen years in far more comfort than this war had allowed. Could have chosen to live in rich comfort for the rest of a very, very long life, and though he wouldn't have left a legacy of fame or honour from the glory of war for himself, he would probably have founded a long line of descendants beyond Neoptolemos, even if his name might not have been known. It was amusing, because few, if any, mortals who dragged the stone of a fate at their chained feet would know so unambiguously which course of action would, or wouldn't, lead to death, and which to life.

Achilles had known, without uncertainty or ambiguousness, which would lead where, and Achilles had chosen.

Achilles had chosen everlasting fame and glory, and thus death at barely thirty. Achilles had chosen both his own and Patroklos' deaths. Would he have chosen differently, if he'd known Patroklos might die as a consequence? Would he have chosen to chance it anyway? For really, Patroklos' death wasn't a requirement of Achilles choosing to go into the fires of a short, valorous life. It'd merely happened. It had happened because Apollo had wanted to hurt him, and because Achilles had stipulated the Achaeans should be driven to desperation before his return to the battlefield, but that had been levied against Patroklos' compassion of their comrades. Had Achilles sent only the Myrmidons out with another commander, Patroklos might have been left alive to mourn his lover, might have been left alive all the way to the end, to guide his son. Maybes, those. But what wasn't a maybe was Achilles' choice to participate in the war, to take the glory and fame mortal men were so needful of.

Well, Achilles had chosen, and now it was time to pay for it.

Apollo leaned over the sleeping man and lightly rested a hand on one strong shoulder. He hadn't made himself to mortal size, and so it was so obvious, how easily he could reach over and close that one hand around Achilles' vulnerable throat. It would be so thin and small under his large palm and long, slim fingers. The back of his throat burned with the desire of it. He did not give in. 

"So many have died because of you, _for_ you, and that doesn't take into account the grief you will leave behind. I hope you're pleased, fleet-footed Achilles, son of Thetis and Peleus. You knew it did not have to be this way."

Apollo pulled away, and in Achilles' disintegrating dream, where he and Patroklos were flying through a bright, cloudless sky, Troy burning to ashes far beneath, Patroklos fell like a stone towards the ground. Achilles dove after but could not catch him, and he woke with a shuddering jerk, chest heaving. Beside him, still sweetly asleep, Briseis didn't stir. Good. She had helped little last night, she would help even less now. Achilles sat there, alone though his bed was full, knowing what was missing with every thunderously aching beat of his heart, and slowly looked towards the tent flap. The flap had been pulled away and tied up, letting in the dove-gray light of early dawn through the empty tent opening. It shouldn’t have been open. For a moment, he thought there was a figure outlined in the light, but the illusion evaporated as he reached for it, closing his hand tightly around the foolish wish of it and digging his nails into his palm. It was time to get up, anyway. Yesterday had given unexpected rest for both the Achaean camp and the Trojans. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so indulgent, but the Amazon queen had deserved a proper and honourable funeral for her prowess in battle, and it hadn't been difficult to convince the other kings of such.

Now, though, Penthesileia was buried, and it was time to finish this.

Finish it, yes. Achilles left his tent and looked towards the rising sun with the vague, tingling awareness that today was the last day. Well, if it indeed was, he would make it a day worthy of him, and of Patroklos as well. Right after Patroklos died, Achilles had been determined to not die until he had Troy in ashes, for that would be worthy of both his death and Patroklos', but if he could not have that, he would make it as costly as possible still. He _certainly_ make the Ethiopians regret they'd come to Troy's aid. Achilles smiled, a sharp baring of his teeth towards the distant city and the citadel on the hill above it, and cursed it out silently. Behind him, water rushed to shore slightly differently than it had so far, and Achilles turned towards the beach with a softer, kinder smile to receive his mother as she came up from the waves. She looked sad, and he would rather have her smiling as she sent him off, even more so when it was clear she did not share his premonition. She feared for him, yes; she knew where it would all end as she had told him of his choices herself, but she was not fearing today in particular. 

He would not have her crying for his death before it happened, and so Achilles clasped Thetis' hands and kissed her cheeks, and let her dress him in his armour before Briseis came with breakfast. It was, for all that his heart still seemed to miss every other beat and his left side burned with the absence of the weight and presence that should be there, a pleasant morning.

A pleasant morning that turned into a bloody midday, and Achilles revelled in it until he could search Memnon out. They postured, they revealed their heritage, and Achilles bared his teeth. Another Trojan-descended dog to put down in Patroklos' honour. Good. 

Birds screamed as Achilles killed Memnon, half of those birds from the disappearance of half the Ethiopian force from the battlefield. Birds screamed and the sky darkened, not from clouds but the sun itself dimming in mourning for Dawn's son, for a sister's grief. Achilles staggered away from his fallen foe as a gleaming meteor of saffron and rose slammed into the battlefield, picked the corpse up, and left, trailing screaming birds like a grieving widow's veil. It left the remains of the Ethiopians broken and fleeing, and the Trojans fleeing as well. He chased them all the way back to Troy, and then, drunk on the possibility of actually storming the city and fulfilling his desire of breaking the city before, or with, his death, regardless of what fate had to say about it, Achilles pursued further.

The Scaean gate loomed large above him, and the darkness shielded the nook Alexander of Troy had wedged himself in.

When Achilles was felled by Paris, Apollo stood behind him. It was not that Paris needed the god's assistance, for he could have killed Achilles with none at all; luck and opportunity would have ensured it. It was that Apollo had been promised Achilles' death, and he would have it. And so it was Paris' hand, Paris' bow, Paris' arrows that killed Achilles. 

But it was Apollo who drew the first arrow back. It was Apollo who let it go. It was Apollo who guided the lethal arrow, let it fly at the angle needed to drive the warrior to his knees when the tendon in his heel was severed. The second arrow Paris let go with a song to the trembling string from which the arrow flew, a terrible finality in the straightness of the shot, and it was Apollo who drove the arrow so deep not even divinely-crafted armour could have shielded Achilles from the heart-aimed blow.

It was Apollo who killed Achilles for Troilus' sacrilegious murder, and the god was radiant as Achilles fell, blinded by the light.

And Thetis, sitting distantly underneath darkening waves that were already roiling with the tension of settling fate, felt it. She’d felt unable to stay up on land after seeing her son off to battle and explaining, with breathless unhappiness, who the leader of Troy's reinforcements were. Now she regretted it. Shuddering like she was the one who had been struck by the arrows, she bent over herself, a hand clutching at her face.

"No. No, no, no, _no_!" Thetis had thought foreknowledge would arm her like she had armed her son, but like the divinely crafted armour made by Hephaistos himself had not been enough in the face of divine retribution, so divine forewarning had, in the end, left her as lethally vulnerable as it had Achilles.

"Thetis?" Agave leaned in close, a hand on her shoulder, worry knotting her brows, but Thetis could scarce articulate to herself what had happened, even less voice her new sorrow to her sister.

"My _son_! Curse my womb, curse Peleus!" Crying out, her other hand dug into her hair, pulling it out of the gleaming strings of pearls that held it in shining bunches around her head, yanking down toward where the first of the silver bands were, tearing through her hair. "Father Zeus, _why_?"

If she hadn't rejected him - no, no, that wouldn't have worked. She had been as tempted by him as she had by Poseidon, and even if Zeus wouldn't have made good on the proclamation of marrying her off to a mortal for rejecting him, there was still Themis and her awful prophecy, the words that had doomed her irrespective of divine affront at being rejected. If she and Peleus had just managed to convince their son to remain in hiding on Skyros for long enough to have the other Danaans leave! Curse the craftiness of Odysseus! She had been sure, so blessedly relieved and sure, that having Deidameia, his young son, and Patroklos all in one place had been anchoring Achilles. That it had made the heady ambrosia of potential glory and honour if not less attractive, then just unwanted enough he would have refused any overtures to convince him to go back for another attempt at Troy if he was found. Five years was not an insignificant length of time for a mortal, after all. A fulfilling family life was not the glory and honour of war, no, and mortal men valued it so highly, but it was not insignificant either. He had been in love with both of them, Patroklos more than Deidameia admittedly, but his feelings for her hadn't been insignificant. Both, then, would have been assured a long life and more children than only his first, had Achilles just stayed long enough to be passed over for the second muster. Then they could have travelled back to Phthia and it would have been good.

But no. No, of course not. Achilles had been just barely twenty by that point, younger still when he first landed on Skyros; of course war and the glory he could win from it was what he'd wanted more, especially since Patroklos would be with him either way.

"Damn the man for interrupting me!" Clawing at her hair until Agave and Actaea gently pulled her hands away to hold them, Thetis realized she now had the majority of her sisters around her, and their parents were coming into the room as well. "My son is _dead_! If my husband had just let me---!"

She moaned, her throat choking up as she sobbed, and around her, as understanding spread, her sisters sympathetically drew breath for wailing. It was almost soothing to hear her growing grief echoed out and magnified. Doris and Nereus were now behind her, her mother's cheek pressed against the top of her head, her father's wrinkled hand on her shoulder. She'd been so angry, so very angry, when Peleus had interrupted her in the only method to make a mortal or mostly-mortal human immortal without the blessing of the ruler of the sphere. It had been going well, much quicker than if Achilles had been mortal only, for his divine qualities were protecting him from the flames and soaking up the ambrosia much quicker than it otherwise would have been, and the fire was burning away the mortal qualities so well. If Peleus had noticed only a few nights later, if only he had left her to her task, _if only_.

But no, he had interrupted her and she'd been so furious she hadn't even known what she'd done before she was in her father's arms, far away under the waves of the Aegean and in the familiar gleaming palace that was still home. 

She'd gone back later, of course. 

Sat on rocks and watched Chiron teach her darling to fire a bow, sung along while the boy learned the lyre, held him during failure and encouraged him to go back and try again. Sat beside Peleus at feasts while Achilles and Patroklos wrestled like young wolf pups on the floor. She wished she hadn't. She wished she'd been angry enough to thoroughly abandon both husband and son, for then this might have hurt less, then she might not even have cared. Might not have listened as Achilles finally tried to beseech a mother he wouldn’t even have known had she not gone back, but she had - to Peleus later, to be sure, and she never stayed for any length of time at any given visit, but she'd gone back. For she'd missed them, and she'd missed what she'd had, what she'd tasted of a life with a husband and son.

"Curse my foolish, precious son!"

Why could he not have understood the worth of a long life, lived well-loved? Why had he not refused Athena, telling her to get someone else to kill Apollo's son? Why had he not at least dragged the boy out of the temple? Why had he let Patroklos go alone, or at all, out on the battlefield, curse the man's compassion and honour! Why, why, why. She knew why. Achilles had gone to Troy, and had thus sealed his fate. He'd repeatedly refused any chance to turn back at every turn he'd been given the opportunity, valuing everlasting, ephemeral glory in the stead of a long, earthly life. He was not divine enough for anything else.

Shoulders shaking, Thetis sunk in over herself and cried.

Later, she went to the Achaean camp, her sisters following. Later, she threw herself over the body of her dead son, clutching his shoulders, clasping his cheeks, and cried again. Later, there was a funeral, though more for her son's companions than for her, for her son was gone, even more irrevocably and firmly than the lingering, empty shell of his corpse would imply for his comrades. Later, bones and ashes were mingled, and she very carefully put the elaborate, golden urn into its last resting place. Then she left, and went up to Olympos.

She knew its paths since childhood, knew all the places to hide, the most comfortable rooms, what trees to climb, what peaks the king of heaven favoured - and yet she couldn't find him.

If her heart wasn't heavy with grief, she wouldn’t have considered invading his personal rooms, but there was no one to stop her as she walked the corridors. Not until she came to the court and found herself facing Hera.

"... Thetis?" Wide, warm brown eyes stared at her in confusion, and Thetis pressed her lips together, slapped a hand over her mouth, and though she'd already spent her tears and rent her clothes, heated grief spilled over like lava from Thera. "Oh, _Thetis_."

Her foster mother crossed the distance between them in two steps, then threw her arms around Thetis and pulled her close, pressed her face into her shoulder. Thetis might have caused Hera some trouble by bending Zeus' ear and thus leading to many more losses than the Achaeans might have had to suffer otherwise, but Achilles had been the best among the Achaeans, and Thetis was her foster daughter; she would not ever receive her cruelly.

"Hera, where is the king?"

It was clear what Thetis was asking by the way she was phrasing her question, and Hera snorted.

"If you think I am currently capable of convincing my husband to see you in his capacity as ruler of the realm simply because he's supposed to be neutral in the war and I am his wife, I must disappoint you," Hera said as she squeezed Thetis close to herself before pulling back and leading her down the corridor to her own rooms, "Eos was here the day they both fell, and Zeus refused to see her as well. He's not going to give special sanction to either Memnon or Achilles, Thetis."

Shaking her head, Hera briefly stroked Thetis' cheek, meeting those brilliant eyes, still weighted as they were by lingering tears. "Whether that is because he's taking his neutrality seriously or he's determined to not give anyone else what Sarpedon have not gotten, you would have to go about it the difficult way if you wanted to change your son's lot... and I am going to strongly discourage you of such a thing, daughter."

Hera shot Thetis an intent look, eyes bright and as firm as the thin line her lips were pressed into. Thetis pressed her own together and swallowed heavily, sighing.

"I see," she murmured, shoulders slumping, "I was not going to attempt to entreat the Lord of the Dead without Father Zeus' decision behind me, Mother Hera."

They entered Hera's rooms silently, and though Hera gestured to one of the two chairs around the graceful, three-legged table by a window, Thetis shook her head. Instead she sank down to the floor as soon as Hera had sat down, folding her arms over Hera's lap and hiding her face there. After a beat, one of Hera's long-fingered, graceful hands came to rest on Thetis' head. Lifted to gently pull the veil away and fold it, laying it on the seat of the empty chair. Then her hand returned to the spill of blue-black hair just barely bound back by its gleaming strings of pearls. The room was left silent aside from the door being cracked open a couple minutes later, a nymph peeking inside and nodding in response to Hera's gesture between herself and Thetis and the table. The door closed again with a silent snap, and Hera sighed.

"I wasted _so much time_ , Hera!" Thetis' cried, her voice wavering like an unsteady sea, speaking up less because she wanted and more to give her foster mother a chance to find something else to say, because what Hera undoubtedly was thinking of would help neither of them, Thetis knew. Hera, as much as she could ache for those she cared for, her children of heart as well as essence and body, had limits.

"Were you happy while it lasted, Thetis?" Hera asked quietly, digging her fingers into the sleek waves of Thetis' hair. It was a question which neatly side-stepped any other possible comment that might have come first; that humans did not live long, and that Achilles, even being the son of a goddess, since he had a mortal man for a father would never have lived long enough for Thetis' divine heart to not be hungry for his presence, as attached as she'd made herself. Not that mortals and _any_ of the Deathless Ones really ought to have children together, regardless of whether they were otherwise married or not, but this, this briefness of life, was the best argument for it not to happen. Keeping distance didn't even always help, and they couldn't make all the mortal children of gods immortal and put them on Olympos, but Thetis had cleaved close to her son and mortal husband after initially leaving. She wasn't the only one, of course; Apollo was an excellent example, and though he was certainly an exemplary father when he involved himself thus, it never did help him afterwards. Too young, so emotional.

"... Yes." Thetis’ shoulders shuddered, but no tears fell to wet the fine fabric of Hera's dress, and Hera gently scratched Thetis' scalp and waited. "I was. Curse them all, my husband, my son, Kronides and Lady Themis as well, but I was."

"And your son, though he won't have a place among us, will be honoured in Elysium as befits him. You remembering him will make him as close to immortal as any mortal could be, and as insulting some of the parts of this terrible matter has been, I doubt it won't be remembered among the mortals as well. You won't have injured your heart in vain, dear daughter." Lightly tugging on a handful of Thetis' hair, Hera shook her head, glancing to the door as her hands fell to Thetis' shoulders. "Now come here, Thetis, and sit up. You're too old for this."

Despite the words, Hera's voice was gentle in its quiet weight, and Thetis exhaled and stood up, offering her foster mother a tremulous little smile. Leaning in, she kissed her cheek. "I suppose so, mama."

Briefly, Hera flushed - but she was not displeased at the address, just huffed quietly and smoothed out the skirt of her dress, quickly catching Thetis by the arm and squeezing before she let go, so Thetis could sit down. Shortly after, the door opened and the nymph returned with a tray bearing nectar, ambrosia, and a heaping pile of Hestia’s cookies. It would not offer any comfort aside from sweet energy, but it was a familiar thing, rarely needed but pleasurable, and Thetis didn't refuse the cup the nymph handed her. It was not better this way; she would still have wished to plead with Zeus, but it was not so terrible either. She'd missed Hera's firmly banked presence, and sitting here, though they weren't the rooms she'd enjoyed with her foster mother back when Hera was raising her, still reminded her of that simple time.

It was something to weigh up against the grief, to lighten the load and make it easier to bear.


	8. Unwanted Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Necessity feels no guilt and knows no blame other than the workings of the cosmos, but individuals can lay blame to cause guilt, either to lash out or to cause pain. Sometimes the awareness of necessity itself will cause pain, and even knowing it's hopeless, we try to act against it.

It was raining over Troy; it was another unseasonal downpour that kept the armies tucked away in their various camps or the city itself for as many as could be fitted within the walls. As if in sympathy, it was drizzling over Aeolia and Mount Olympos as well, the clouds heavy but only pale gray, like thickened mist. It was a momentary reprieve, for the rain meant Ganymede could ignore what was going on below. The rain meant nothing much was happening, meant a moment of stillness. A moment to wonder - how much longer now? It'd already been half a month since Hektor was killed. Almost two weeks of Ares getting into screaming matches with Athena almost every day, which Ganymede had both heard about and heard even when not present in the council chamber. 

Half a month was weeks longer than he'd thought, when Achilles had died only days after Penthesileia.

Half a month, Paris having died just days ago with both Hera and Athena at Philoctetes' shoulders as he aimed a poisoned arrow. An arrow for an arrow, and Alexander of Troy died in slow, agonizing pain up on Mount Ida, hoping for healing that had come too late. Such pain couldn't have been deserved, when, even if he'd chosen the wrong goddess, he was as mortal as any caught up in the war; wasn't dying itself enough? But Ganymede had bit his tongue and said nothing; Paris had already been dead for a couple days at that point. One more obstacle removed, and Ganymede had wondered what Athena and Hera would do to ensure Troy fell, since it had protections still. Seeing Helenos in the Achaean camp had been a shock when he'd finally looked this morning, and he'd had to go to Hebe, to ask what even had happened. Apparently Hera had instigated a fight between Deiphobos and Helenos over Helen, now that Paris was dead. As if she needed to be married again! Would it not be better to simply leave her unmarried, until they had chased the Achaeans away? Not that that would happen, but it wasn't as if anyone down _there_ knew that. Well. Aside from Cassandra. Pressing his lips together, Ganymede swallowed a curse and swallowed down the dry ache in his throat.

But no, clearly Helen had to be married and so Helenos and Deiphobos had fought. Fought with divinely inspired animosity fuelling them, so when Helenos lost he'd decided to take himself up to the retreat on Mount Ida. He did not reach Mount Ida. Ganymede did _not_ ask what the Achaeans had done to have Helenos spill the secrets they needed to know, because whatever else, no matter divinely-forced folly, Ganymede refused to believe Helenos would betray Troy like that. Scrubbing his face, Ganymede sighed into his hands. At least he didn't think so. 

He was so very tired.

It'd seemed so stupid, to start with, even when Ganymede was fully aware of how deeply pride was woven into even the most unassuming deity; if they felt challenged or belittled, they _would_ rise up, and lash out. Perhaps it was inevitable with how much power and responsibility they had, wore, they _were_ ; anything that seemed to make little of their honours could not be borne. And it really did seem the war wouldn't go much of anywhere, to start, but now... Curling in on himself further and pressing his forehead to his knees, Ganymede hid another sigh under the noise of falling rain. Nine years, into the tenth - exactly as prophesied - and week on endless week of Troy's army slowly being whittled down. This morning with the tide Achilles' son had arrived and Ganymede was torn between incredulity, frustration and disgust. The boy, barely fifteen, slender as a whip but surprisingly broad-shouldered, just barely wore his father's armour without making it look ridiculous. Neoptolemos wasn't quite tall enough to wear it properly, but if he held even half of Achilles' prowess, even that young, he could fill out what he lacked with the blood of fallen Trojans.

"Ugh." Pushing to his feet, knowing he'd just keep thinking about this, Ganymede knew it was time to stop staring out at the dripping garden and go do something else. Perhaps it was then to no surprise that as he stepped back inside from the covered porch, Ganymede found himself sharing the corridor with the one, single individual he would least wish to be alone with. "... Queen Hera."

Ganymede flicked a glance around, quick and twitchy and with a lot less subtlety than he'd like, but the corridor was empty. There was no one near to offer a buffer, and she was further much too close for him to dip his head for her and for him to then turn to stride down the corridor and hope to walk away from her with some grace.

"Prince Ganymede." Her voice cool and her light brown eyes loosing lustre until they more resembled unpolished amber than their usual brilliant colour, Hera stood there at the corner for a moment, then smiled thinly. 

She crossed the floor like a slowly stalking hunting cat, and Ganymede had to stand there and wait for her to come up to him and, hopefully, pass him by. Usually she did. 

Not that he'd actually had the opportunity to meet Hera alone anywhere on Olympos during the war so far, and he was grateful for that. Especially so when it seemed to him that despite her greater height and longer legs, she took an inordinate amount of time to reach him. The richly embroidered hem of her dress just barely dragging over the gleaming floor as she walked, then brushed against his toes. Hera stopped, another sweep of fabric against his toes as she turned, and Ganymede closed his eyes, just for a moment, then looked up to meet her eyes, refusing to quail under the weight of her divinity, radiant around her head, practically shimmering down her lovely, pale olive skin. 

It was nearly impossible not to, and he knew she could make him, if she dropped any pretence of polite veneer, but then that would be noticed. Which was probably the greatest reason as to why Hera didn't do that, even as she narrowed her eyes minutely when Ganymede only straightened up, meeting her gaze at a slight angle. Ganymede would never regret having Zeus' genuine, and, more importantly, enduring affection and interest as well as pure, wanton desire. Would not, could not, even if that, he knew, was the entire reason Hera was angry at him. It would have been worse if he was a woman, but he wasn't, and thus he couldn't challenge her position in any way. Technically, he counted even less than if he'd been an enduring mistress, kept as close as he'd been, because he couldn't give Zeus' children. What he was to Zeus, though, was probably far worse on an intimate level, something there was no easy way for Hera to defend against. And so here they were then, still well over a hundred years later with Ganymede's unquestionable suitability for his position and right to be on Olympos contrasted against Hera's personal hurt.

"Not with Hebe, today?" It was, surprisingly, a genuine question and wasn't shaded with any mocking implication for how attached to her side he had rather become lately, as often as circumstances allowed it when she had temporarily taken up most of his duties again. Ganymede was startled enough it took him a moment or two, then he shook his head. Not that Hera never talked to him neutrally, but it certainly hadn't happened since Thetis and Peleus' wedding.

"She took the chance to spend it with Herakles, my lady," he said quietly, still eyeing Hera a little warily, "since she's gotten more comfortable now."

"I don't know what I was thinking," Hera said, and Ganymede might have honestly fallen over from shock from the frankness of her tone, the open arch of her eyebrows rising up on her smooth forehead, "but it seemed suitable after everything, and Zeus had certainly been attempting to work towards their being married. Nevermind that, though." 

She snorted, a soft, muted sound that was soft enough the sound of falling rain disguised it almost entirely. The expression on her face froze and cooled, sharpened out into Hera's usual expression whenever she was faced with Ganymede and had no need to present a proper facade.

"As much as my daughter is surely glad for a moment of respite, I should think you are, too, considering what Troy is to you. I wonder, does all this blood spilled hurt in any way that this have hurt me? I shouldn't think so," Hera said quietly, reaching out to briefly touch Ganymede's chin, and somehow he didn't flinch away from that, but maybe that was because he was still surprised from her earlier unexpected frankness, "since you can't know either how the weight an insult paid to one of us feels, or the pain of a wife having to share in this way."

"No, Queen Hera." What else was he supposed to say? He was hardly so stupid as to claim it was in any way the same at all, whether it actually could be the same or not. Even if he'd known beyond a doubt that it was the same, or if his pain had somehow weighted more heavily, he wouldn't have said so. You didn't say such things to the Deathless Ones and survive unscathed.

"Has it been worth it, Iliades?"

He looked up into endless, brightly pale brown eyes like the bronze aether, Hera's graceful lips angled in a tiny, edged smile, and the barb hurt as much as it did not. If all this had happened only shortly after he'd been taken, even worse if his closest family had still been alive, then those words would've found their mark in full. It would have been all too easy back then, as new as he'd been even if he was now technically no older than then, to believe it was his fault. But this war was much larger than him, and he really had as little to do with it as Helen did, though she had been used as a catalyst. Well, disregarding the apple, of course.

… Right?

"Yes, my lady," Ganymede said, even if his throat felt tight and heavy for it, and raised his chin, bit his lip before he spoke again, "it has been worth it, but Troy hurts not for where I am, but for what it means to me."

Hera's eyes widened briefly, and though her smile flattened out into blankness, for a brief flicker of a moment there was something that was possibly the seed of actual respect on her face - or she was just annoyed he had sidestepped her barb and thrown it back at her, no matter how subtle. Ganymede couldn't be sure which, but while he sort of wished for the former, the latter was more pettily satisfying. It really was rather small-minded to make Troy suffer in Ganymede's stead, but it was Hera's responsibility if she wished to add that to her very real right to feel insulted over what the apple symbolized.

"It's a pity for you your loveliness does not diminish when you're in pain, and that you suffer so beautifully, Ganymede."

This time he did flinch, as much for the hand reaching for him, heavy with some intent the earlier touch hadn't held, as for the idle tone the words were said in. It was so dismissively bland it hurt as much as what Hera was actually saying, even if Ganymede knew she must have been pleased, whenever, whatever she'd seen in his face these past ten, fifteen, years. He just hoped he'd not given her as much as she would've liked to see. Ganymede looked up again, past the hand that'd just passed over his eyes, close enough the bare breath of air between the tip of his nose and her palm had been heavy with charge, and he couldn't tell whether she'd truly meant to touch him or not.

"I know it's there even when my darling husband has gone through all this effort to make sure I see as little of it, and you, as possible. And I know you would not disrespect Troy in such a way as to _not_ look at what's coming, so neither mine nor your sight will be clouded by your still-human limitations, Iliades." 

Hera smiled down at him, sweet like a razor-edged rose, and turned on her heels, walking past him and down the corridor. Staring after her, Ganymede blinked and then slowly frowned. What had she even meant, with that last? He couldn't figure it out. Worse, though, was the way her words lingered, and while he'd meant what he said - it truly had been worth it, and what _it_ was didn't involve Troy because it had nothing to do with him as such, still the edge in Hera's question burrowed deep. Burrowed, and found prey, hooking onto the tender insides of doubt and guilt Ganymede tried his hardest to not think about.

_Was_ it his fault?

He knew it wasn't, really. And yet. Yet---

Sucking in a sharp breath, Ganymede turned down the corridor as soon as Hera was out of view, and was glad they didn't seem to be walking in the same direction, for he didn't see her again as he hurried through the corridors. As soon as he cracked open the door to Zeus' study, however, Ganymede paused there, almost shrinking back and hoping he hadn't been noticed. What would it help to ask? What if Zeus said yes? He wouldn't, that was the sort of thing Zeus would lie about if only to spare him, but _what if_? What then?

"Ganymede?"

Freezing, both guilty and relieved at having been seen, Ganymede closed his eyes and exhaled, then pushed the door open and closed it behind him. Ended up on his knees by Zeus' chair, arms folded under him over Zeus’ strong knees, and dropped his face down to hide it against his arms.

"What is it, beloved?" It was a question as much as it was a demand to speak, though Zeus' hand in his hair as it tangled among the curls to comb through them was gentle, fingertips rubbing at his scalp.

"... Is it my fault? With Troy, that she's---" His voice wavered but didn’t break as Ganymede bit his lip, feeling awkward to voice such a complaint out loud. It sounded like an accusation, petty instead of something that might be real.

"Look at me, my prince." If Ganymede hadn't been minded to look up, he would have had to anyway from the way Zeus tipped his face up with his other hand, fingers gripping his chin. The hand in Ganymede's hair, half swallowed by those thick curls, didn't stop moving and became no rougher, though. "Had you not been here there would still have been Troy's royal family descended from Elektra for Hera to focus her ire on, and so the fault, I suppose, would be mine. If you hadn't been here, darling Ganymede, and any descendant of Dardanos dead before Paris was born, she would have focused on Troy being my most beloved city, for it would still have held that distinction. She would focus on that, knowing that while I have to remain neutral I would rather not, and would thus, if I could, work far more openly against her than I have. It's _not_ your fault. You have nothing to do with the war, as it's happening."

Zeus' silver glare bore into him, and now the hand in his hair tightened, kept him pinned like a lamb under a wolf's jaws. "If I hear you entertain such thoughts again, I'll be taking steps." His expression softened, turning the threat into something less underpinned by fury and carried, instead, by indulgence. Loving concern, under that, and Ganymede laughed, wavering and edged, but still.

"Yes, my lord. It's just... why _Troy_?" He should perhaps feel ashamed for the plaintive plea. Wishing for it to not be Troy would be to substitute some other city in its stead, along with all the ones that had already suffered, but Ganymede could feel nothing but aching want for it to _not be Troy_. Not that he could have chosen another city if he'd been asked to, so it was the empty echo of a heart's need to be spared of pain, with no actual outlet. "Why _like this_? It couldn't have been any other way?"

Ganymede regretted putting voice to those questions before he was even done speaking, but it was too late to take it all back. Swallowing back a shudder, he squeezed his eyes shut. He'd been doing so well, not acknowledging, not asking, not since that first attempt at landing on the beach outside Troy had been repelled. What was the point of asking such, when they were the sort of questions anyone asked when faced with war and invasion? He wasn't even the one who had to fear death, or suffering, or loss of the home he lived in. Except he was suffering anyway, despite being so very far away from Troy, and feared losing this beloved city that he'd been born in, even if that was so very long ago now, and he hadn't lived in it for very long, in the end. He feared it anyway, feared it until his insides were a full-body aching throb. A city should be, if not eternal, then lasting far beyond any one individual lifetime. He’d lived longer than one individual lifetime, though. And besides, cities fell to war and were razed, or were crumbled by earthquakes. Cities were really no more enduring than a mortal body, but it was something Ganymede could not face.

Above him, Zeus was quiet, long enough Ganymede opened his eyes again and looked up to study his face, a weight in those grey eyes, in the hand combing through his hair. Those usually soft lips were thin and flat, and when Zeus shifted to speak, Ganymede had the distinct feeling that Zeus was saying something slightly different than what he might originally have intended.

"No, Ganymede. It's Troy because it has to be, though I tried to have it otherwise."

"You..." Uncomprehending at first, Ganymede stared up at Zeus, one hand gripping a knee, the other sliding up until he could twist his grip around the thick, soft fabric of Zeus' tunic. Heat fought against his gritted teeth, wishing to spill forth. "But---!"

Staring up into that still, regal face, grimly quiet as if braced for the caught outrage to be poured out, Ganymede felt like he’d heard something similar years ago, but far more distant than just ten or fifteen years. _It's Troy because it has to be_. Had to be. Memory bloomed up, and Ganymede would rather it not have as he squeezed his eyes shut again. Then, unable to stand the darkness there, opened them again to meet Zeus' luminous gaze, squeezed the knee under his hand tighter just to feel the resistance there, more solid than his own mortal bones could ever be, made immortal or not. 

"You... You talked, about _ananke_ once."

Zeus' eyes were endless, cloudy sky, heavy and leaden, yet brittle enough it seemed his expression might break if Ganymede so much as breathed on him. He closed his eyes and pulled Ganymede up, onto his feet, onto his lap, wrapping his enormous arms around him and hiding him there. Ganymede threw his arms around Zeus’ shoulders, wide enough to carry the world and buried his face in the rain-smelling crook of Zeus' neck. He felt hollow, but no tears would come. Not yet.

"Necessity bows for no one, beloved." Zeus grunted, pulled him back to clasp Ganymede by his cheeks, cupping his face between both his hands and his gaze pinning him until he could just barely breathe for the weight of it. "Believe me, if I could have had it any other way, I would not have let it come to this."

Ganymede would never quite say that Zeus would voice something like a plea, or beg, but the thunderous, rumbling quality of those words, insistent and earnest beyond any simple mortal promise, could just as well have been begging Ganymede's indulgence, for his understanding, and could further have been pleading for belief. There was a sharp light in those gray eyes, and Ganymede swallowed heavily, barely daring to think that Zeus seemed like he would not be able to stand it if Ganymede might not believe him.

"I know, piḫaššaššiš." Mirroring Zeus, Ganymede cradled the god's face in his own hands, thumbs stroking over the sharp jut of cheekbones. Nevermind the faint tremble to his hands. "I believe you. I know you love both Troy and my family enough you would have avoided it if you could have."

It changed nothing, but the weight of Zeus' words evaporated any nascent, reflexive urge to think he could have done more. If there'd been no way, there was no way. Shuddering, Ganymede swallowed down the lump in his throat, and when he hugged Zeus again, leaning in to hide his face, Zeus clutched him close and kept him there. Still, right then, Ganymede was dry, and he was thankful for it. Mostly because if he had to cry, he would rather not do it continually through however long was left.

He did not dare ask Zeus if he did know how much time was left. Whether Zeus would have told him was another question entirely, but Ganymede could not bring himself to do it, too heavy with the horror that'd come with the realization that this was all _necessary_. How could something like this be necessary? That, too, he couldn't bear to ask, and so didn't. Quite forgot - or rather, dropped - his conversation with Hera, since it'd gone surprisingly well despite her strange parting comment. Though, well, it wasn't odd that she'd want him to see all that happened to Troy, and Ganymede, no matter how he tried, had always seen more than he truly wished to, these past ten years. 

As the rainy evening turned into a cloudy but dry night, moon and stars hidden down below but shining over Olympos and then slowly turned into a rose-red, cloud-ragged dawn, Ganymede could not quite escape his thoughts of Troy.

One could think it would be easier now for the Trojans and their allies to defend themselves, even if the Achaeans had Achilles' son ready to enter the battlefield. But it didn’t matter, did it? No matter what the Trojans did, or who was on their side. The awareness that it was all necessary, that it was unavoidable, led Ganymede's reluctant eyes towards any surface that might be a suitable focus, as helpless to deny seeing as necessity was impossible to stop. Though as Eurypylus died at Neoptolemos' hands - the grandson of a demigod killed by the son of another demigod - and Athena and Ares almost came to blows again, Ganymede could swear flickers of the views below kept persisting as he looked away, before he even looked back. He was probably just upset, though. It wasn't like he didn't have reason to be, and the distractions his friends could offer were hard-pressed to actually keep him distracted. Like now, with Ares shouting furiously at Athena, the view of them offered past the ripples marring the surface of the fountain's basin where Ganymede had stopped to cool himself off.

_"Haven't you done enough!? I know you know you wouldn't ever have been chosen! It would've been Moth---"_

Ganymede winced, as much for the combined accusation-taunt as for Athena furiously launching herself at her brother, for the moment lacking in thoughtful strategy and clever grace. That Ares had gone there... well, he was still upset about Penthesileia.

"Ganymede, _stop watching_ ," Kastor shot him a knowing glare from across the fountain, but Ganymede only pulled a face as he glanced down again. Even when Polydeukes splashed him and turned the surface into a glittering refraction of ripples could he still see when Ares punched Athena. Above them, thunder growled, then cracked, and below, on the battlefield outside Troy in Ganymede's watery view of it, a bolt of lightning sheared Ares and Athena apart, Enyo briefly coming to pause by her brother to steady him, giving Athena a glare before she flitted away. Unwilling to stay close when Zeus was liable to possibly come by any moment now. And come he did, in a flicker of motion, to shoot a glare between his two children, arms crossed.

_"Back to Olympos, both of you. Leave the battlefield to the mortals... and to Enyo and Eris,"_ Zeus growled, and all three departed, though in the sky clouds still lingered.

"Are you done? We'll leave you behind, you know," Polydeukes said, arms crossed over his chest and the light playing over his bare skin as Ganymede looked up, sighed, and shook his head, standing up from his crouch.

"I'm done."

They set off again, loping down the wide path with the ease of immortal stamina behind them, mostly pausing by the decorative fountains along the path to cool off, not to rest. Ganymede definitely preferred to run with the Dioscuri compared to, say, the Erotes - none of the latter were much enamoured by the discipline it took to spend a couple hours doing this. They liked sprints well enough, but those Ganymede could not win. Stamina he might have, but divine speed and strength was beyond his limits. So this was nicer. It gave him company, brief bursts of conversation, and something to judge himself against. This wasn't just another distraction for the war, though it was useful for that, too; he'd approached Kastor and Polydeukes some time after their shared death-and-apotheosis when he spotted them running on one of the days they were up on Olympos, and while they'd been doubtful at first ("if you can't keep up, we'll leave you behind"), now it was familiar and pleasant routine.

If only Ganymede could keep his focus on the path, on his feet, on his companions, on the rhythm of the beat against the ground and the brush of warm autumn air against his skin. He couldn't. Not that that was new lately, but since there were too few focuses to offer him a surface to see by along this path, he shouldn’t be do distracted. The fountains notwithstanding; it wasn't like he could see into their basins while they ran by. Despite this, Ganymede's gaze was drawn sideways continually by the shimmer of heat in the air as well as the glittering refraction of light caught in the streams from the little fountain statues and features, and though he looked away every time, the teasing flickers of fighting, light caught in bronze, seemed to follow him out and away from the water spouts. The tilted, uneven view of the wall of Troy in the fall of a fountain's feature that had a nymph pouring water from an amphora, too close compared to where the fight should have been happening, almost had Ganymede tripping over his feet and falling face-first onto the ground.

Staggering to a stop, he whipped around and hurried over to the fountain, and the ripples spread over the surface mattered little. Usually it would be hard for him to see past disturbances like this, had been only just two days ago, but since this morning it offered no obstacle at all. It made it quicker, easier to see, but that was right now both a blessing and a curse.

"Ganymede?" That was Kastor, clearly having noticed Ganymede falling behind and doubling back despite all those threats to leave him behind. Ganymede ignored him, bending over the fountain's rim and watched as Neoptolemos led the Achaeans against the Trojan wall and the forces against them couldn't seem to hold. The Scaean gates were open, too, to offer their forces protection, though in the middle of being closed. But they wouldn't be able to be barred quickly enough, and with the army scattered out on the battlefield, there would be no way to easily repel the Achaeans from the walls, from the gates.

"Ganymede, you need t---"

"You can go without me!" Ganymede shouted over his shoulder as he shot up, away from the hand about to fall on his shoulder, and ran. Back the way they'd come, back towards the palace. It might not be his fault, but maybe he should have done more, sooner.

Even knowing it was fruitless, even more so now with the realization that it was about _ananke_ and not just divine whim tangling with mortal politics and desires, but still Ganymede couldn't stop himself. Just because it was necessary, didn't mean it had to happen now, did it? It didn't have to be like this. _Please_ not like this, not yet. Almost choking on his breath, Ganymede chanced to squeeze burning eyes shut for a moment. For all that he'd felt dry and empty yesterday, he now seemed overfull with watery heat that threatened to spill over.

It didn’t matter, for it was futile. 

He knew it was, because if Zeus, king of the gods, ruler of the sky, father of gods and men, had not been able to avert necessity, what could he, human as he was though divinely descended, do? And yet, the image of the Achaean army advancing on Troy, all defenders scattered around the city and not gathered in front of it or up on its walls to be able to defend it, was burned into the inside of his brain, and spurred fleeing feet on further. Ganymede's bare feet and lungs both ached by the time he crossed the courtyard in front of the council hall and the megaron, knowing where Zeus would be. Knowing he wouldn't be alone, knowing his upset was all too clear for anyone to see. His expression wouldn't obey him, and instead, as he approached Nike where she stood by the council hall's doors, he could feel the hot weight in his throat shudder outward in a cramp-like squeeze of his muscles. Nike's eyes widened and she went from bewildered to frowning.

"Ganymede---"

He shook his head, curls flying about him and passed her silently - and Nike, bless her, opened the doors for him, allowing him to barrel inside without having to stop. "Father Zeus, _please_!" 

Ganymede burst into the council hall and ran the length of it, paying no attention to the blur of faces. He couldn't. If he did, he would... no, he wouldn't stop, but it'd take him too long to say what he wanted, needed. Someone who knew, if they knew, might point out it was all futile, so why was he hurting himself this way, and he would make an even bigger fool of himself than he surely already was. His heart hurt.

"Please, _not yet_!" He threw himself at Zeus' feet, clutching at the hem of his tunic, the embroidery heavy and rasping against his palms, his forehead pressed against Zeus' knees and his eyes burning and throat thick. His hands were trembling. He needed to explain himself, but all he could think of was the last view of Troy he'd seen, and no words came.

"Kronides," Hera started, and Ganymede flinched, bracing himself. While she mostly sounded annoyed, he could hear the thread of sickly-sweet, pleased smugness underneath. He knew he was only giving her what she wanted by coming in here, what she'd so pointedly commented yesterday she'd mostly been removed from seeing so far, by both Zeus' and his friends' efforts. Not that she had not seen anything; his outburst over Hektor's treatment had been in plain view, but this was more than that, and Ganymede hadn't been able to temper his voice. It'd been trembling, and he'd been begging, but what else could he do? _Not yet_. Please, please, not yet. Gritting his teeth so he might not, at the very least, sob, Ganymede twisted the fabric in his grip tight enough to hopefully hide the tremble by the white-knuckled grip.

" _Quiet_." Zeus' voice was thunder, and Hera fell silent. Perhaps willing not to fight over this past her initial protest, for while this might delay Troy's fall, it wouldn't be by long. Futile. The word beat along with his heart. Ganymede knew it, and yet he couldn’t help himself. Couldn't _not_ plead for relief for just another few days. If that. It would be better than nothing, a chance for Troy to actually properly defend itself, surely.

He should have done something like this sooner, when he didn’t know it didn’t matter.

Hands, large, warm and smooth, came down to cradle his face, and Ganymede shuddered, swallowing a hiccup and just barely holding back the tears that threatened to overflow.

"Look at me, Iliades."

Ganymede let Zeus tilt his face up with that gentle, shielding grip, thumbs stroking his cheeks under his eyes, and that was too much. He blinked, and the tears spilled over. Zeus' hands, if not the rest of him, briefly trembled.

"This will not change anything. It won't make it easier." 

Those gray eyes were lead and brittle, dirty ice, and Zeus’ jaw was tense enough it was a wonder one couldn't hear his teeth and bones splinter under the force of pressure. His lips were a tense line and while Zeus didn't say 'this might even make it harder, beloved', Ganymede could read those words in his hands, in his expression, in his eyes. He wished they were alone so he could have buried himself against the broad, solid chest, hidden his face in the rain-smelling crook of his neck, have those huge arms hide him even more, clutching at, around, him as if Zeus, too, needed him to be that close. But they weren't. So instead Ganymede drew a sniffling breath through his nose, blinking more silent tears away as he nodded.

"I know." It was a bare whisper, and it trembled through him with the awful knowledge of the inevitability. He could not avert this. It would happen either way. He just couldn't stand to see it happen _now_ , couldn't stand it to be like this, though the hours, maybe days, he was saving by begging if he was given relief, would only be further torture. And so Ganymede raised his chin and licked his dry lips. "Please, Father Zeus. I cannot stand to see my father's city fall like this, just yet. I can't---"

His voice cracked and he flinched, which covered for the way Zeus twitched too, just slightly. Those dark, heavy brows drew together, and if he was free to offer Troy's survival, offer the city whole and entire, to this royal son born from it, Zeus would have.

He wasn't.

"I can't _bear it_."

Ganymede had no elaborate plea to offer, no beseeching words to suitably lay at the feet of the king of gods and men in return for the gift he was asking for. All he had was the claws of hot iron tearing at his insides, the choked tremble of his voice and the knowledge he would sacrifice more tears than these in the course of Troy being torn to smouldering ruin. Would give them in full view of Hera, if that would change anything, but it would not. The apple of Zeus' throat bobbed once, heavy and reluctant like an ill-made anchor sinking in an uneven sea before he drew Ganymede up by his cradling grasp of his scrunched, terribly sweet face.

He leaned down, and held Ganymede there, their foreheads pressed together for a few, precious moments.

"Troy does not fall today, beloved."

Ganymede's breath slammed into his chest with a shocked shudder, eyes wide and round as he stared at Zeus. He hadn't expected that. That his plea would be granted, he'd been almost entirely sure of, for as little good as it would do, but that Zeus would acknowledge him like that, out loud, with people within close and obvious hearing, within this very official space... He didn't glance sideways to Hera, he neither dared nor cared to. Instead he tried to squeeze out some gratitude, but all that came out was the breathless trembling of his fumbling mouth. Zeus shook his head, lowering a hand to touch his lips, then stood up, drawing Ganymede along with him.

"Nike!"

The goddess, who'd been standing in the doorway throughout this, was quick to come to Zeus' side, head tilted and face unreadable. "Yes, Father Zeus?"

"Escort Prince Ganymede back to his friends."

There was no reason for Zeus to hand his cupbearer over to the Goddess of Victory with the gentle precision of his hands bracing strong, trembling shoulders, but he did, and Nike laid a graceful arm around them in turn, one wing stretching out to curve around Ganymede as they walked the length of the council hall and out into the cooling autumn sunlight, where brewing clouds soon smothered the sun with red-tinted darkness. Troy did indeed not fall that day, as thunder loud enough to make the ground and the very walls of the city tremble halted the advancing soldiers, as bloody and dark mist shielded the city while the sky over Troy was covered in pitch-black clouds. Lightning drove the Achaeans back to their camp, and lightning kept them there until it was too dark for any fighting to be easily done.

Inevitable necessity still offered wiggle-room, and Zeus would take it and give Ganymede what he could, as little as it was.


	9. A Few Heartbeats More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeus makes a last visit to Troy the night before its destruction, for memories and two people's sakes, and Elektra comes to beg the indulgence of the father of gods and men. Not that there's anything Zeus can do, and so she leaves with even less than she came with.

The sky over Troy was clear, now.

Had been for the past several days, and the choking, dark-red mist that'd hidden the city could just as well have been a dream. It was what it amounted to, honestly. A wanted illusion of safety from the attackers, the delusion that ruin might not be coming thanks to divine protection. Zeus sighed as he studied the distant view of Troy and left his spot on the peak of Mount Ida, having been sitting here for a couple hours already. He'd been unable to relax for even an hour or two after Ganymede had fallen asleep, and the boy's presence, as soothing as it was, had for once not allowed him rest. Perhaps it was because of the little frown lingering between Ganymede's eyebrows even in sleep, an unintended accusation of Zeus' inability to force things to go where they both wanted them to.

There was ananke, and there was his wife, and so, then, Troy would fall.

Three steps, and Zeus was down from the heights of Ida, past Troy's wall and up in the fortified citadel. Even in the middle of the night the air was thick with tension, and there were not a few torches lit, guards on the walls, in the corridors. Sleepless both by need and concern. The god ignored all of that as he wandered halls and rooms, pausing only in the doorway of Priam's bedroom. Watching the old man sleep for a couple minutes, Zeus’ lips twisted. He'd lived a long, blessed life, to be sure, but his reign had begun as it would end; with war. If Laomedon had just been able to control his temper and need to lash out at anything resembling divine meddling after Eos had taken Tithonos, even helpful interference by the mortal son of a god, _this_ war, right now, would have been the only one Priam would have had to know. That wasn't what'd happened.

And it also didn't really matter. Laomedon could have acted exemplary with his divine laborers or Herakles, or both, with or without his son having been taken by Eos, and Troy would still be falling in the next day. The only thing that might have avoided that was Paris choosing Hera. Maybe. Zeus hadn't been able to tell Ganymede that when he'd asked if things truly had to be this way. It was probably better to not have revealed that; there was no need to plague his prince with more what-ifs that might not even have been possible. And besides, at this point Zeus wasn't actually sure both his wife and fate might not have landed them here anyway. Under him, the stone trembled with his footsteps as he turned away from Priam’s bedroom, and Zeus exhaled and pulled himself back in. It just deeply aggravated him how it was _this_ city of all of them, and he hadn't been able to do anything to try and save it. Not really, not openly. Not in a way that truly mattered. Rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Zeus stopped walking - turned to another door, knowing what was, or rather, had been, behind it. Opening it revealed the room was still used as a bedroom, though the bed had been exchanged at some point, newer now... and clearly hadn't been used for a while. Troilus' or Polydoros’ bedroom, then. Once, it'd been Ganymede's. It was smaller than it had been back then, with a wall and door where there shouldn't be one. Arching an eyebrow, Zeus crossed the floor and opened the offending door.

"Ah."

The room had been parted in two to make a small, private shrine to Troy's kidnapped princes. There was a public hero shrine to Ganymede out in the city, near the gate into the citadel, but this was more intimate, less for offerings and more for memorial. The wall-hanging above the three-legged table and shelf built into the wall was old and strangely worn for something that should just have been hanging there, but Zeus dismissed it and looked down to the small spread of items left out. An aulos, old enough to be Ganymede's. A training sword which could have been either of the boys', impossible to tell. A real sword which had probably been Tithonos’, considering he'd undoubtedly been capable and willing to handle it, compared to Ganymede's rather abysmal skill. Toys neither would have been using for years by the time they were taken, meant for younger children than they were. Two fillets with winged suns etched into the front stacked half on top of each other.

The place didn't seem to see much traffic, but someone had still been in here relatively recently to light an oil lamp and pour a libation of water. Picking up the toy chariot with its two carved horses and tiny charioteer, Zeus turned the well-loved toy over in his hands, then looked up again, to the wall-hanging. It didn't seem to have much to do with the items left out, or even with what the purpose of this little shrine was. It was still familiar in a vague way, and Zeus’ frown deepened as he truly thought about it--- It'd been the blanket that'd been on Ganymede's bed. Putting the chariot down, Zeus reached over to finger the hem, still fine and neat in places.

Left here, it would burn soon.

It didn't take much thought to take it with him before he left the room and continued on, until he found the other room he'd been looking for, if not entirely consciously. In there, Helen slept with Deiphobos, though while she was pressed close up against his chest thanks to the arm he'd thrown around her, the rest of her slim body was angled away from him as far as the bed would allow. They weren't much alike, she and Ganymede, but there was a very similar little notch between her graceful swallow's wing eyebrows while she slept.

Zeus stared down at this mortal daughter of his and sighed. Reaching out but not actually touching, he sketched out a caress above the loose, endless blonde waves of hair just barely tied back, errant strands stirred by some draft tickling his fingertips. She had freckles on her shoulders, and a slightly darker scatter of them on her cheek and up over the bridge of her nose. Zeus happened to know her eyes were the same colour as his, though the rest of her colouring was certainly much closer to Leda's. She was breathlessly beautiful, but that was only half the reason she was here. The vast amount of wealth tied to her was the other half, and those two reasons together was why it had had to be Helen, daughter of Zeus and Leda that Aphrodite tempted Paris with. Only a daughter of divine ancestry, only a daughter of one of Achaea's richest kings, would have been enough for a romantic heart as well as an ambitious one that was not much good at war. Only those two together.

Zeus stared down at Helen and frowned.

Only those two together. It might have taken a lot of intentional, careful work to orchestrate this war, but he hadn't actually put much thought to what Hera, Athena and Aphrodite would do to try and sway Paris to choose one of them. He'd been so utterly sure, bribes or no bribes, that it would be Hera either way - perhaps because he'd wanted it to be so, because that would mean a chance for Troy to be left standing. But if fate as well as necessity had a hand in this, then Aphrodite would have needed an exemplary bit of bait to be chosen, to ensure Troy's eventual destruction and the many people dragged down with it.

Maybe it was no wonder Leda had caught his interest.

Displeased at this thought, Zeus almost left right then and there, but he caught himself half through turning away and turned back, leaning down over the bed. A loose curl over Helen's ear, that much reminded him of a similar one over Leda's, tickled his mouth as he leaned in.

"Know you will live for long enough this will seem but a small bite from an apple, neither sour nor sweet. You will die happy, and with the husband your young heart came to delight in, child." Straightening up, Zeus left.

In two steps he was outside of the citadel, crossed the plain between Troy and the Achaean camp in one more, and then slowed down. The camp, compared to the city and its surrounding, if dwindled, camps for the assisting forces, wasn't quiet, but rang with the sounds of saws and hammer strikes, shouted instructions, and was lit far more thoroughly than the camp would usually be at night. The reason, of course, was the wooden construction rising near the wall with frenetic speed. Anyone not occupied with the building was packing. Zeus crossed between the rows of tents, ending up in front of the towering, wooden horse. It actually did look like a horse by now, and it was clearly finished, only its details and decoration being worked on now. By morning, it would be ready. Reaching out, Zeus laid a hand on its bronze-plated hoof, and for a vicious, surging moment there was the urge to ruin this thing, make the Achaeans have to start over.

Zeus took his hand away without having done a single thing to the wooden horse.

Delaying this would not save tears, wouldn't save hurt, either for the Trojans or Ganymede. Tipping his head back to look at the underside of the wooden horse's head, lost in the smoky darkness, Zeus pressed his lips together, expression grim. If dragging it out would save Ganymede pain, he would have done it. That the core of him was aching too he paid little attention to as he turned away, continuing his slow walk through the messy camp that was steadily being cleaned up if only because everything was being moved to the ships. Passing by Diomedes' tent, Zeus paused. Frowning, he backtracked and went inside. There, yet not packed into one of the hero's ships, stood the Palladium. With some goodwill and imagination, the dark, smoothly rough thing could have been taken for a female figure carrying a spear, but that it should hold any actual likeliness to Athena was more from it having been dedicated to her after Elektra gave it to Dardanos when he left Samothrace, for safe passage across the ocean.

Rubbing his thumb over the heavy, blunt tip of cool meteorite stone that was supposed to be the end of the spear, Zeus sighed. He had infused it with protection, layers and layers of it on top of a burning core of the same intent; not so much as to necessarily protect against Hera - she did not, after all, go after _all_ of the children sprung from his infidelities - but as to soothe Elektra's anxious heart. They'd found it while walking across Samothrace after seeing the spear of light it'd made in the night sky the night before. It'd been very close to Elektra's time, and she'd proclaimed it, half seriously, half joking, as a sign of protection and of safety for her children. The way she'd worried both her heavy stomach and the dew-covered stone had driven Zeus to actually _make it_ into something protective.

Not that that had helped Iasion, in the end. Grimacing, he shook his head. Both regretting those actions and not - he could admit he'd been jealous, yes, but Demeter knew just as well as anyone she shouldn't have followed in the male gods' footsteps when it came to laying with mortal humans. Or she should've hidden it better. Lucky for Zeus that he'd been able to save enough of Iasion to give a perfectly normal mortal life back to him - or perhaps that, too, had been part of the Palladium's protection. Dardanos had left after that, and Elektra, worried, had convinced him to take the Palladium with him. Had he put too much power into this thing? Was that the reason Dardanos had flourished so, and that Troy had eventually been founded, the walls not torn down immediately after being built despite Poseidon and Apollo's anger over being treated as they had? It was hard to regret it, if so; Troy was, had been, a glorious city since Tros had come to it, and from Tros - from Dardanos, beloved as he'd been - had come something that'd become so terribly important to his heart.

And all of that had come from Elektra. Shining, amber-haired Elektra, who had given the protection of the Palladium away because she wanted her son safe. Who, though she hadn't approached him unlike Thetis and Eos, would be hurting over this much like he was. 

"Hermes," Zeus said quietly, and didn't turn around as his son flickered into view in the opening of the tent, then walked inside. He could feel his inquisitive gaze on his back, but Zeus didn't immediately speak.

"Father?"

Shaking his head, Zeus turned around, a hand still remaining on the uneven, but smooth, surface of the Palladium. "Make sure this gets into Aeneas' hands when he leaves. It's not for the Achaeans to take with them."

"Sure thing. I can do that." Hermes looked from the vaguely female-shaped stone figure on its pedestal to his father, not missing the worn blanket draped over Zeus' shoulder and upper arm, and as sparkling midnight blue met gray, the vaguely amused expression fell away for something more serious. "Can I do anything _else_?"

Zeus arched an eyebrow silently. Hermes might not have dipped deeply into this conflict, but he had still offered up his participation on Hera and Athena's side. Still, Hermes was serious and Zeus treated it as a serious offer, though it had little to offer him. There was nothing Hermes could do that would help. He shook his head, stepping away from the Palladium to drop a hand on Hermes' narrow but muscled shoulder in passing.

"No. You kept Priam safe so he could fetch Hektor's body, and you will make sure the Palladium ends up in the hands of the only mortal Trojan prince that will survive this," Zeus said dismissively and left not just the tent, but the Achaean camp and Troy altogether. He didn't miss Hermes' sigh right before he went back to Olympos, and steadfastly ignored having heard it as Hermes appeared beside him on the front steps of the palace. "If you help guide Aeneas out of Troy safely, both I and Aphrodite will surely be pleased for it."

Zeus preceded Hermes into the palace and let long, furious steps carry him to his study, where it was safer to leave the blanket until there was a better time to give it to Ganymede. For now, he draped it over the back of his chair and then sank into it, folding down over himself until his elbows rested on his knees and his face rested in his hands. Just a moment. 

Ten years, because it had been necessary. Ten years of letting himself think he might leave this with Troy and its royal family at least partially standing. Ten years of watching Ganymede's fair, bright face go from unconcerned to wavering to, in the last couple months, tightly subdued. And though crying and begging for Troy's survival had happened only the first time a couple days ago, which Zeus was both thankful for as much as he was surprised it'd taken this long, he knew those wouldn't be the only tears. Ganymede wasn’t as unaffected as he was desperately trying to project. Zeus was rather sure his prince had no idea how he clung to him in sleep.

Ten years was nothing.

Ten years was everything. Ten years could be a terribly long time as the fight against the Titans had proved, and it was ridiculous to compare them, but the weighted necessity and all the fate that'd ended up tangled into this had turned it into such a heavy thing it was bending the aether around it. It'd leave a mark.

Sighing, Zeus straightened up again, leaning back until he was looking up at the ceiling of his study. He stayed there for long enough the light crept back in, shy and dove-gray when a knock echoed through the room. Zeus was standing by the time Iris stepped inside, and he arched an eyebrow.

"Iris?"

"Elektra has come seeking audience, Father Zeus."

Suppressing another sigh, Zeus wondered why she was not clever enough to do what Thetis had done when she'd come to bend his ear about Achilles. She'd searched him out, not relying on making it official. Now, he both had to do this and could do nothing at all.

Not that he could have done anything anyway.

"Gather Themis, then. And Ganymede as well. Elektra will undoubtedly want to talk to him after, and it will waste less time, that way," Zeus said as he walked out, knowing that, despite this attempt, there would be one more in the megaron by the time Elektra stepped into it. Well, as long as Hera kept her opinions to herself, there was nothing he could do to forbid her from attending. Indeed, it _wasn’t_ Elektra who came in after Themis and Ganymede. Themis was first, meeting him at the megaron's entrance, and Ganymede wandered in not long after and looking terribly displeased to be up so early and yet looking around in search for Elektra already. He offered both Zeus and Themis a sleepy little smile when he saw them. After him...

Hera swept in with all the importance and weight due to her, and Zeus offered her a hand - though he was sorely tempted not to - as she went to sit down. They didn't look at each other, and, in fact, each let go quickly enough it might have been humorous should there have been anyone to find humour in their current hostility.

When Elektra stepped through the columned portico and into the main hall of the megaron, there was only straight-backed gentility on display, but the chilly weight between husband and wife was obvious even so. She flicked a glance between them and shot Ganymede a little smile where he was lurking on the seating closest to Themis. Zeus might have spotted a suppressed sigh as Elektra stepped in close to the edge of the dais, but her face was clear, if not unlined in her obvious distress, when she raised it.

"Father Zeus. Queen Hera. Lady Themis." Elektra greeted each of them, but it was Zeus she focused on after, her large, endlessly dark brown eyes carrying pain like girls carry filled jugs of water from a well. "Father Zeus. I have nothing to offer but my pain from a legacy threatened to be reduced to nothing, my..."

She paused. Very deliberately not looking at Hera, she continued, " _our_ sons' line for naught, after you have gloried in the city so, well-deserved as your praises have been from the royal line of Troy."

Hera shifted in her seat. Zeus glanced over, eyes narrowed and lips thin, and she looked away, hands folded achingly tight in her lap. Baring his teeth briefly, he looked back to Elektra, seemingly haloed in the light from the hearth behind her, bolstering the faint, inner glow that turned her hair into a brilliant brand. It seemed fainter than it should be.

"If Troy's place in my regard and my delight for their many sacrifices in my honour weighed heavily enough against chained fate, Elektra, I would have driven the Achaeans back long before now. The war has taken much, and will take yet more." Zeus and Elektra watched each other for a silent, weighted moment, then he slowly shook his head, his long dark hair swaying like waves. Olympos might just as well have shuddered along with the motion. "I could offer respite, but that would number in hours, days at the very most. Not salvation. I can do nothing but let this happen."

He held his hand out while Elektra stared, opened her mouth, closed it again. She looked down, the weight of her dark gaze seemingly gone, and slowly reached out, grasping his wrist more than the huge hand offered, and a shudder went through her.

"I see," Elektra whispered as she let go with glacial slowness, stepped away, "could I borrow your cupbearer for a couple moments, Father Zeus?"

"Prince Ganymede is all yours for as long as you want him, today," Zeus said, his voice filling the megaron. Nodding to Ganymede, who jumped off his chair quick enough he might have stumbled should his grace and balance have been any less, and came up beside the goddess-nymph. Her smile was as pale as the rest of her as she dropped an arm around Ganymede's shoulders. Zeus watched Elektra and Ganymede leave the megaron with grim exhaustion, knowing even if she hadn't said anything about it yet, that this would be the last time anyone would see her. There was no other conclusion to draw with the way she almost seemed to blend in with the shadows near the doorway, colours lost. Some nymphs lived longer than others, and though none were truly immortal, the Atlantides, so far, had shown no true end to their blessedly long lives. That didn't mean they couldn't die. The Pleiades would have lost one of their own by tomorrow. Gritting his jaw, Zeus sat still and quiet for another couple moments, then tipped his head but didn't look to the side. To either side, though Themis on his left was at the moment more comfort than the familiar and usually loved presence to his right.

"Are you pleased, now?"

"Am I supposed to be sympathetic? To which of them?" Hera said sharply, standing up from her throne and brushing herself off. "Forgive me if I don't shed any tears, Zeus."

She didn't want or need his forgiveness; she was indeed pleased, that was more than obvious. Not pleased that one of them should have become so injured by this mortal matter as to be unable to go on - that was a loss unspeakable, especially when it came to one of the goddess-nymphs. The Pleiades might not be as one of the greater gods, and a nymph might die of things that could kill a mortal, too, but Elektra had started to die in a way that could only touch someone with essence like them. Elektra’s impending death wasn't only what Zeus had meant when he'd asked, though, and they both knew it. Zeus opened his mouth to retort, but Hera strode forward, stopping in front of his throne. 

"It didn't have to be this way, you realize." She was resplendent and achingly beautiful, as cruel as the sun and sweeter than any drink of iced nectar in high summer, and met his gaze in full, brown eyes blazing. Zeus snorted, waving a hand dismissively.

"No, it would have been the same. Changing or removing one variable wouldn't give you any less of a reason to go after Troy with the excuse of being rightfully slighted. You would never have been satisfied with Paris alone." 

Hera's eyes widened, then narrowed. She snorted and looked down her nose at him, her smile slow, sharp and viciously pleased. There was an edge of honest surprise in her face that he would admit she had reasons, reasons beyond the insult Alexander had paid her, but it was lost behind the pain obvious in Zeus' voice. Lost, too, in her annoyance that he had realized it. It was about the apple and Paris, yes, and it was most certainly about Ganymede, Zeus’ darling, precious prince of Troy, but it was so much vaster than that, a great, terrible fury expressed in the most direct way possible, against Zeus' irrepressible sex drive and creative force both. She would have the city in gravel and bones, her honour restored for the insult paid, and though none of this would give her restitution and she might have to pay for it with one of her own cities at some point, it was a balm, still.

"I'm glad to see you aren't entirely without perceptiveness." That was just plain insulting; Zeus was plenty perceptive, but there was little reason for her to be kind until this was over. Not with how antagonistic they'd been the last ten years.

"Spare me, Hera," Zeus rumbled, eyes like adamant and narrowed to razor slits, "and keep your insults to less petty forms. This stings little in comparison to how you ensured your deception would succeed. The _girdle_ , really?"

He hadn't touched on this before, had had other things to focus on and then had just been too furious about it. Not that she would deceive him, and not that she would use sex to distract him; as annoying as it was, it'd been pleasant, and he could have called it worth it for all the damage it did. It was that she didn't need such trickery - well, all right. Normally she wouldn't need it. She was plenty capable of seducing him by herself and was an utter, overwhelming delight when she put the effort in. With how things were, however, he would have refused her. So. Of course the girdle, but that was the reason for Zeus' insulted anger over the whole thing. It was infuriating that she had resorted to similar trickery such as Aphrodite and Eros employed when they would not leave their sticky fingers out of whether he felt drawn to search someone who wasn't Hera or Ganymede out or not.

"If my husband has shunned my bed for years due to the conflict we're dealing with, I knew I needed a little bit of extra help where I otherwise wouldn't. Don't be obtuse, Zeus," Hera sneered and shook her head, turning in a sharp sweep of veil and dress both, "I should hope I won't need it more than once. Good day."

It was to Themis, not Zeus, she aimed that last to, looking over her shoulder at the Titanides before she strode out of the megaron, undoubtedly to find a comfortable spot to oversee the coming slaughter now that she was finally getting what she wanted, after such a long time.

###### 

The sun was behind them, rising towards zenith as Elektra led Ganymede away from the megaron. Her shadow, she noted with a clinical sort of numbness, was paler than his. Usually it would be darker, deeper, as if even the shadow cast by an immortal goddess-nymph was made of more than just light refused to reach the ground. No matter. She could hold on a little longer, yet. She found them a room not very deep into the palace, a couch to sit down on, and turned towards the youth sitting down beside her. Let her hands skate without truly touching over the shining crown of sun-bleached curls, starting to darken a little again; brush down over his cheeks, and every single little reminder she could see in his face of her son was a stab into the wavering beat of her heart.

"Elektra..." Wide, endlessly green eyes which betrayed his parentage in Callirrhoe and his grandfather and great-grandfather stared up at her as Ganymede worried his bottom lip, his gaze flickering between her face and practically anywhere else in the room that wasn’t her. She sighed, clutching more at his overabundance of thick curls than his cheeks.

"Remember what I said about keeping a distance to the descendants of your mortal offspring?" She felt like crying, but at the moment that would spill more of her than it otherwise would, too soon, and so Elektra suppressed it. Ganymede nodded, a tiny little furrow making an appearance between his dark, arched eyebrows. It looked more at home there than any such expression ought on such a sweet face, carefree as it would usually be. "Even distance doesn't help sometimes, my heart."

Elektra sighed, deep enough to almost moan, losing her battle against her attempt at distance and clutched Ganymede's cheeks, leaning in to drop a kiss to the top of his head. "Troy has always been treasured to me, right next to Samothrace, and when we attach ourselves to places and family lines like this..."

She shook her head, pulling back so she could look down at Ganymede again. Soon, he might be the only descendant of Dardanos that was left alive, and whatever she might have thought once of Zeus taking the boy, now she could not be anything but grateful. She ached, from end to end and deeper than that, and as such, that gratitude wasn't enough to stop her bleeding out. It wouldn’t stop her yearning for the sky in a way she never had before, but it would warm what little would be left of her. Troy might be reduced to gravel, Dardanos' line brought to nothing, but there would still be this one, shining gem left.

"... I heard Hestia once said the Deathless Ones claim cities, and that ties them to it, in some way. She," Ganymede paused, swallowing, his shining green eyes darkening with weight Elektra much recognized, and she could tell what he would say, now, but only nodded, silently urging him on, "she implied I'd done something similar, but I'm not---"

"Ganymede, oh, sweet, darling Ganymede. You're immortal, now. Have been for long enough to start to understand what it truly means, and you were born in Troy." Elektra found a smile, small and thin and yet heavy like a giant's millstone, which Ganymede tremulously matched. "You might not be able to attach yourself to a city or place in quite the same way as one of the Deathless Ones, but immortality does much by itself. That you can't do it the same way will protect you, as well, though it might not feel like protection when this is over."

And she was terribly, _achingly_ , relieved that he was indeed protected. She would have spent the rest of herself to make sure he would last, if she thought there was a risk of the heartbreak literally breaking him in such a way it defied his granted immortality. Perhaps that was selfish. Perhaps that was cowardly and hypocritical, but for all that the Deathless Ones and nymphs could be and were, humans were yet great in their own way. Ganymede would grieve and hurt for it, and Elektra knew such grief could sometimes kill, but it would not kill in the way it was killing her. Still, while she might not need to do that, she could leave something else for him.

"Protect me?" Ganymede tipped forward, curving a soft, but deceptively strong, hand around her elbow, then up to grasp her upper arm, and Elektra closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Could you fetch the bracelet I gave you the first time we met?" 

She opened her eyes to see him open his mouth, a much simpler shadow of mingled confusion and desire to refuse because of said confusion passing through his eyes, but instead he obediently nodded and slid off the couch. Elektra watched Ganymede trot out the door, then sunk in over herself, hands over her face. She was not entirely without mortal descendants left, though like with Troy and Dardanos' line, though she hadn't left Samothrace, she'd pulled away from them. Troy’s impending destruction wasn’t the first stab; Iasion's death and resurrection had injured something in her long before Troy. There was Ploutos from Iasion and Demeter, and he was as immortal - more so, since he was a minor god - as Ganymede was, but like Ganymede himself, as beloved as the youth had become through a number of visits since their first meeting, he could not tether her. Zeus might have both killed their son and then resurrected him, but he could not interfere for Troy and its royal family, that much was clear. She wished to curse him, as much as she'd cursed him and then pleaded for Iasion's life, her voice mingling with Demeter's. Cursing Zeus for this would be quite useless, and would further be like a warrior stabbing someone he held dear and that had offered both shield and spear for his own protection before. Zeus cared for Troy, for the line of Dardanos. It did not mean he could do anything about what was to happen.

Ananke.

It was the only answer. Elektra swallowed a dry sob and straightened up, pressing a palm to her eyes until there was nothing but empty weightlessness left.

When Ganymede came back, she was composed again, and gestured him close with a little smile. The youth was a gift to the eyes from the top of the hyacinthine curls on his head to his perfect toes, but for Elektra he was mostly a gift for her heart. Ploutos looked much like his father, and Elektra had treasured that as much as she treasured her grandson for himself, as strangely haughty as he could be for the rather down-to-earth nature of both his parents. Ganymede, in contrast, seemed to be as much the perfect coalesced result of some of her as well as her son and the river gods present in his bloodline through the naiad daughters of them. Though personality did not get inherited in such ways, he also reminded her more of Iasion than of Dardanos.

She had perhaps been far more injured by Iasion's first death than she thought.

It didn't matter now.

"Thank you, Ganymede," Elektra said as he dropped the bracelet in her palm, the smooth, round amber beads warm from his hand and the original bit of power she'd put in them. Closing her fingers around the bracelet and squeezing it until it was hot, Elektra closed her eyes for a moment while she reached out with her other hand, finding Ganymede's cheek sight unseen. "You will have to say goodbye to Ploutos for me, I won't have the time."

"What? Why would you need to say goodbye?" Ganymede hissed, tense and high, the same way it might sound if one were to strain a lyre's string too far by tightening it too much, and Elektra opened her eyes and looked into those endless eyes of his. He knew why, of course. He would just rather not acknowledge it.

"Like I said, my heart, some things can injure too deeply, though I am of Atlas and Pleione born."

Ganymede opened his mouth and Elektra shook her head, leaning in to kiss his forehead before he could say anything. 

"I'm sorry, Ganymede. I know this is terribly cruel, when you, we, are all already under such strain. I hardly planned for this, but I cannot---" Her voice cracked, just a little, as much as she'd been fighting to not show such and add to his pain, and Ganymede swallowed heavily, the apple of his throat bobbing jerkily several times before he nodded.

"I'll tell Ploutos you said goodbye," he whispered, lowering his gaze and veiling it with the thick fringe of his lashes and oh, this boy was too kind and conscientious.

"Here, then." Elektra smiled, slow and pale, yet warm, as she opened her hand and lightly took the one he'd been clutching her elbow with, threading the bracelet onto his wrist. The amber beads glowed with a power like fire now, its colours brightly blood red, sunset yellow and paler, throbbing amber. It was heavy enough Ganymede dropped his hand down when she let go, flexing his arm to shift it up again. Her smile lingering for his startled look, Elektra took off one of her earrings and dropped it into his palm, closing his fingers about it. "And give this to Ploutos."

"I will." Ganymede straightened up, nodding as if she'd charged him with her own honours. Well. In a manner she had, though not in any way that would give even Ploutos more than he already had. "What about your sisters..?"

Ah. She shook her head, letting her hand fall from Ganymede's cheek to his shoulder. "They will know, Ganymede. You won't need to shoulder that burden as well. Now, I won't be _entirely_ gone, though I will certainly not be as I am now. You know our stars?"

"The Seven Sisters, yes," Ganymede said, even smiling a little now, tremulous though it was.

"As much as stars can belong to anyone, we are tied to them. Look up and know I'll still be there, even if I can't be _here_. My star will be a little fainter than the others after this, but it will not fade. More importantly," Elektra said, and though she was speaking firmly, her voice was faint as she took Ganymede by the wrist, turning his closed fist around to let the light catch in the amber beads of the bracelet, "I am here as well. More than will be in the sky, certainly."

Mostly because the thing about her star was a bit of... not quite a lie, for what was left of her would certainly be far above the planet after this was done, but not as far as the stars she and her sisters claimed were. What was left of her would dim the sight of the star that was hers, that was all. But if she could give him something more to look at and feel a lingering connection to her with, she would give that as well as she was able. It was as true as it could be, after all. Slowly, she let go and pulled Ganymede in for a hug, and if he clutched at her as if their relation was closer by blood and life than it was, well, with what was happening to Troy she might just as well be. Guilt only ate her quicker, unfortunately. 

"I am pleased to know you, darling Ganymede, and that my son had part in bringing you into the world."

"Elektra---"

Pulling back and pressing a finger to Ganymede's lips, which briefly trembled under her touch, Elektra smiled one more time and stood up, leaving one of her soon to be very last descendants behind. Opened the door, stepped out into the corridor. Her footsteps had no sound, she cast no shadow. The sunlight was warm when she stepped outside, and she breathed it in and let her pain go.


	10. The Sack of Troy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra sees the coming destruction in the morning, Aphrodite prepares her unknowing son for his future in the afternoon, and Helen understands the futility of action in the evening. Left, then, is a night of destruction and pain through Ganymede's eyes, as little as he wishes to see it.

Cassandra sat at the back of the wagon and stared up at the sky.

The rising sun over Troy was gilding the buildings in a backdrop of light, making them glow. The sunlight crept along the stone and set the tops of the walls on fire. She stared at the sun unflinching, though for all that it could have been accusing, it was not. The sun would be her witness to truth, the sun was the source of said truth. There was a light inside her when she spoke the truth, but no one else could see it. 

Why had she been so tempted by the future, once? Thinking it might help her family and her city, yes - but also a desire to simply know. To know if they'd be safe, to know how long things might last, to know if she might avoid marriage, somehow. She'd thought she could push through her disinterest in sex when Apollo weighed his gift of prophecy against the joy of bedplay. It wasn't as if the god was unattractive, it wasn't as if she didn't wish to please him, and hopefully please herself too. Perhaps it'd been arrogant to think one of the Deathless Ones might leave her filled with fire where the thought of a mortal man never had. Perhaps it'd been desperate to think it might give her a chance to feel what seemed to be normal, and get something else she wanted along with that. She'd known what she was doing when she had to push Apollo away, when, no matter his radiant beauty and his skillful hands - the kisses had been a discovery, but kisses couldn't carry her through the whole act - she remained cold. When the idea of going further no matter what she might want to give to her god had remained otherwise deeply unpleasant. 

So she'd refused.

Perhaps if she'd been older she would have thought to say _give me the gift afterwards_ , for Apollo had been generously unthinking in bestowing it beforehand. What a thing to think of a god, but it was the truth, Cassandra knew. She'd seen it in his face, though he hadn't apologized as he changed what he could not take back. So she stared at the sun, golden light warming her cold skin and the divinely-built walls, and saw the future echo of the fire that was to come.

"Troy is lit in fire," she said, sing-song, the words bubbling up helplessly at the knowledge. Fire and sharpened bronze gleaming in the fire.

"Cassandra, please. It's only the sunlight." Priam reached back, a winkled, soft hand to her shoulder, and Cassandra sighed. Perhaps it would be easier if she could rage against the treatment she was given for her misunderstood and disbelieved prophecies, but her father was ever full of aching compassion and sad patience. He wanted to believe - hence why he always wanted to know of her utterings - but want could not conquer divine curses. Turning around and standing up, ignoring her father's urging for her to sit back down, Cassandra shaded her eyes with a hand and stared at the partially ruined wall that surrounded the Achaean camp. They were following the broad path the armies had beaten into the ground, the wall towering up very close now, and beyond that, the strange, wooden construction left behind.

Scouts had set off before breakfast when the stillness of the enemy camp had become too stiff and strange, and reported in baffled, but growing, relief the place burned and abandoned aside from a huge wooden horse. So Priam and a number of the lords and kings from their allies, plus an unintended growing amount of people from the most important Trojan houses had set off for the camp to see for themselves and decide what to make of it - were the Achaeans really gone, without having to be driven away, their ships burned? Cassandra stared at the horse as it grew to fully seen splendor as they passed the wall, and her stomach knotted at the sight. Funnily, it was entirely normal apprehension for once, and she leaned in over her father, hands on his shoulders and rested her cheek against his.

"This place is unsettling," she whispered, frowning, "empty when just yesterday we know it was full of armed men wishing to kill us all."

"A good sort of unsettling, my eyes, if the emptiness is true," Priam said, but he chuckled, voice dry as kindling and relieved to hear his beloved daughter speaking as she normally would, even for as tensely anticipating as he was for any of her prophesying on the off-chance that this time he might understand and believe, despite that he hadn't so far, "but true. It's strange indeed."

They stopped, Cassandra helped down by one of the lords who, after her two other possible suitors had been killed, was now another one hoping for the hand of the most beautiful daughter of the King of Troy. Pity about her occasional ravings, of course, but that hadn't stopped anyone wishing to marry her, though she was into the first part of her second decade now. She watched the men congregate in a hushed knot under the shadow cast by the horse's head. The rest of the people, important but not so important as to be included in the council, thronged around the huge construction, murmuring.

Someone found the dedication to Pallas Athena, and arguments bloomed up.

What to do with it, what _not_ to do, if anything at all.

Cassandra watched the sun rise in the sky and darken the wooden horse's shadow as it grew on the ground. "Enemy horses can't be tamed, too loyal to their master's reins; they should be butchered and sacrificed."

Several men moved away from her, someone dared to shush her, but one man stared at her with a small, but deep, frown, turning away from the horse where he'd been trying to call his sons back from running around the base of it. Poseidon's priest. They stared at each other, she and Laocoön, and Cassandra saw it when Apollo descended in ghostly guise, touching the priest's forehead between his eyes. Laocoön turned towards the horse again, eyes bright as Apollo turned away. She met the god’s gaze, the two of them staring at each other over the distance. Apollo's bright blue eyes should be as blessedly blue as the summer sky – deeper, brighter than that - she knew, she'd seen them up close, but here they were dark, and there was a twist to his lips. Desperation. Cassandra closed her eyes and tasted the truth of want, and pushed it away from herself. It was hard enough to know that her home would fall; she did not need to carry the weight of knowing Apollo, the city's patron, could do nothing at all to help.

For this would not help, as pure as the desire of it was - and what could be purer than a god's desire to help?

"It could be a trap," Laocoön said, raising his voice above the din, "it should be burned like the rest of the camp, fulfilling it as a sacrif---"

The ground trembled, the wooden horse creaking and swaying and Cassandra whipped around though she was too far away from the council. Younger, more sturdier men made sure both her father and the rest of the elders kept their feet, luckily. Exhaling and pressing her lips together, swallowing down the apprehension knotting her gut, her worries were echoed in the people around them. Though they took the wrong conclusion from the brief earthquake, because of course they did. Athena was angry at the suggestion of burning it - well, certainly she would be - so they should claim it and bring it to her temple, hoping to subvert the Achaeans' dedication and bring them ruin. Cassandra resisted the urge to sink in over herself and hide her face in her hands.

No, no, no, they shouldn't do that.

That's what would happen.

" _Listen_ to me! Why should we honour our enemy's gifts to the gods? Just leave it here if we're not to destroy it!" Laocoön shouted, and Cassandra could hear the remains of Apollo's desperation in the words, could feel it in the air, heavy on her shoulders, wanting out. The sun was brighter than the early morning should allow it to be as Laocoön took a spear from the closest armed man and ran towards the horse. The ground trembled again and people screamed, pointing towards the sea.

Snakes.

Huge, finned water dragons.

People scattered.

Cassandra stood still, hands pressed to her mouth, and whispered a funeral dirge as the snakes burst from the froth around the waves hitting the beach and, ignoring all others nearby, aimed for - Laocoön’s two boys first. Their screams were soon cut off, Laocoön bellowing as he desperately tried to save them anyway. The dragons took him last, then simply disappeared back into the water.

Cassandra barely felt the hands which hurried her back to the wagon, barely listened as scared voices demanded they pay proper respect to the goddess and the gift she'd been given.

It followed them back into Troy, and Cassandra watched the sun drench the walls in white light.

###### 

The sweet allure of sacrificial smoke led Aphrodite to her son's rooms in a distant corner of Troy’s palace. The city, its gates thrown wide open to allow the free movement of both citizens and allied soldiers, was celebrating, song echoing through the streets, through the corridors of the royal citadel. There was only one voice that stood out, heard only in passing as Aphrodite took a couple steps through the palace - Cassandra singing a mourning song.

Narrowing her eyes, Aphrodite shook the pall off as the doors to her son’s room opened to her and she found Aeneas sprinkling wine on the burned remains of the sacrifice at the small house altar he'd erected as soon as he and his family had moved in after Dardanos had fallen to the Achaeans. Aphrodite took a moment to smile at the sight before she glanced around the room - the door to Aeneas and Creusa's bedroom was open, revealing Ascanius sleeping in a curled-up mess on the bed, though Creusa herself apparently absent.

"Aeneas," Aphrodite said as soon as he was finished, for she didn't wish to make him misstep during the sacrifice - it was sweet to her nose, ears, essence, and she was due it as well as the other gods, and it wouldn't pay to stir more outrage than necessary from the ones making ready for their triumph. She also stayed quiet to watch him as long as possible to suppress the urge to explain everything to him, to give him as much time and resources as possible. That, too, would certainly outrage Hera, and though Aeneas was given survival by fate's decree, how many beyond him was a negotiable matter. Aphrodite wanted her son to have as an advantageous start as possible after this tragedy, so that meant taking as little from Hera and the others' victory as possible.

He startled at her voice, twisting around and dipped into a half-bow, though he came forward as easily as he had when he was small when she held her hand out and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

"Mother. It's finally over." He smiled like only her darling Aeneas could, and Aphrodite met that smile with one of her own and touched the cheek she hadn’t kissed. He'd clearly just shaved, for the neat shadow of a beard he preferred was back, compared to the scruffy half-mess it'd been lately.

"Which means you can finally get out of Priam's hair," Aphrodite said, straightening up though she hadn't reduced her height much, just enough so that she could pass for a tall mortal woman. Aeneas was a little taller than her, like this, and she could never decide whether she liked it or not. "So you should start packing, my darling."

"Packing?" Aeneas arched a sharp eyebrow, a wryly amused little twist to his lips. "Already? I was planning on staying here while we rebuilt Dardanos. It would give Ascanius and Creusa more stability."

Oh, no. Aphrodite laughed, sweetly bright like nothing hurt at all, like that was a certain future that could happen and not an impossible dream, and patted Aeneas' cheek. His skin was still dark with tan against her own. 

"Do you truly think Priam would suffer that? He's old, and while he was a good king in his youth and he's usually as wise as an old mortal man can become, I wouldn't fault him for getting somewhat paranoid that you might consider it far easier to take his throne rather than rebuilding Dardanos for your own. Most of his sons are dead, my darling."

Aeneas frowned, shaking his head.

"Mother, Priam knows I..." He trailed off, hesitating. Seeing what she was saying the longer he thought about it - though that was also because Aphrodite gently nudged his mind towards it. She needed him ready to leave, and she wished him to be as supplied as possible. He could not be that if there was nothing packed. "I could reassure him with my most earnest and weighty oath, and he would slowly be besieged by doubt anyway, wouldn't he?"

Aeneas sighed, somewhere between guilty for thinking such a thing about his venerable kin and tiredly accepting it. Aphrodite took one of his strong, calloused hands and patted the back of it in silent reassurance, then let it go to walk over to the window. From this angle she couldn't see the ruined gate the horse had been pushed through, but she could see the horse itself, placed in the largest square. She stared at it hard for a vicious moment, then wiped her face clean and whipped around, leaning back against the windowsill, smiling at her son.

"The palace is mostly whole, and I shouldn't think Priam would begrudge any of your surviving townsfolk to remain in Troy until the city is rebuilt. Something he'd probably be even more pleased to allow if you showed yourself eager to return home as soon as possible," Aphrodite said while the air around them smelled sweetly of roses, taking over the dissipating scent of burned flesh from the sacrifice. Aeneas nodded, the slight pinch between his brows easing up as he warmed up to the idea. Aphrodite relaxed a little, too, seeing it. As much as she could considering the circumstances, anyway.

"That is probably the better idea, you're right, Mother. And depending on how Dardanos looks, and how Creusa feels about it, I don't think Priam would begrudge her and Ascanius remaining in Troy for a while."

"Definitely not, my darling," Aphrodite said with a smile that breathed light into Aeneas and had his shoulders easing down a little further. She pushed off from the window to kiss her son's cheek in passing before she crossed the room and went into the bedroom, looking down at her grandson. "I think that would please him a lot, and Ascanius should have more friends this way."

Ah, this poor child would have barely any peers at all, depending on how the escape went. But at least he would be alive. Aphrodite leaned down and kissed the sleeping boy's forehead, caressing his crown of brown, silky hair before she straightened up, turning around to spot Aeneas with his head bowed and a struck expression on his face for the blessing to his son. He was so earnest, still. Hopefully the coming journey would not break him of it entirely, though Aphrodite had no idea just yet how long it might last or where Aeneas was supposed to end up. Ships, though, would be needed. There were some seaworthy ships still in Troy's harbour, and there might be others large enough to serve in the closest cities still standing after Achaean raids. She couldn't tell him that, though.

"I'll leave you to start packing and getting your people together, then." Aphrodite resisted walking back and kissing his cheek again and instead went for the door, pulling her veil about herself. "Simply be ready as soon after the feast tonight as you can, I'll give you a sign."

She shot him a smile full of golden, bright sweetness and stepped out, closing the door behind her and going invisible. The echo of a song, joyful and bright, threading through the corridor was drowning out Cassandra's mourning one, if she was still singing. Aphrodite frowned, all lightness she’d carried inside to Aeneas evaporating. There was something morbid about the happiness suffusing the palace, the city. She could feel the ghostly touches of gratitude like sticky child's hands on their mother’s hands and dress, tugging against her essence. Aphrodite wasn't unfamiliar with war, no matter what Athena and many others might think and compared to what she herself preferred, but this subterfuge was grotesque. With a shudder Aphrodite took one quick step and found herself in a small alley in Troy proper, singing and clattering from cooking implements echoing around her.

Also, the smell of cooking flesh.

Compared to the sweetness of the smoke from Aeneas' sacrifice, this crept up into her nose, sticking there. 

Cooking meat.

Pressing a length of her veil to her nose as she swallowed down her protesting throat, just barely drowning out the smell of smoke against the sweetly floral scents clinging to the fabric, Aphrodite took another step, which landed her outside of Troy - a mistake. The plain was still full of the detritus of weeks of war, not to talk about the most recent battle. She could still hear the singing. Unable to summon a smile, Aphrodite was glad she hadn't taken her chariot to Troy; her hands were shaking at the moment and would have been useless at the reins. So instead she lifted off, flying back towards Olympos.

Ares better be easily found; she needed a couple hours of distraction, and nothing would happen until late anyway.

###### 

It wasn't yet so very late, but Helen still found herself in bed, Deiphobos half sprawled on top of her, making it annoyingly hard to breathe. He'd come in here an hour... an hour and a half? ago, so drunk he'd fumbled with both himself and her and gotten nowhere. Ended up asleep on her, and Helen could only thank Dionysos for that. She should perhaps have been in the hall to enjoy the feasting as well, but she'd felt strangely empty and cold since shortly after she woke up this morning, seeing the distant beach empty of ships past the partially ruined wall. It should have been cause for celebration, and certainly had been for everyone else. Helen had claimed to feel ill, Priam giving her his indulgence as always and letting her withdraw. She hadn't been able to escape the noise of the celebration, still, but now Troy had been growing quieter and quieter over the last hour or so. The festivities might usually be able to last long into the night, but it'd been a hard couple months for them all, and letting loose like this... perhaps it wasn't so strange the drunken revelry soon had the whole of Troy and its allied soldiers asleep.

Not Helen, daughter of great Zeus and Leda, however.

Partially because every time Deiphobos exhaled, a veritable cloud of dizzyingly wine-stinking breath wafted over her and made it even harder for her to breathe. After the latest such, Helen scrunched her nose and unceremoniously shoved him off with a gritted huff of exertion. Deiphobos flopped over, Helen still and wary beside him, but he didn't wake. Sitting up in bed, she bent over herself for a couple moments, hiding her face behind the fall of her hair as much as in her hands. Exhaling in a sharp sigh, she straightened up and looked over her shoulder at her newest husband. If he could be called that. Alexander had always minded her moods and even late into things, when all she could see when she was looking at him was how great of a mistake it'd been to give in to the desire that'd burned in her chest, her limbs, upon seeing him for the first time. Desire that’d lasted many years after that, and though she’d turned bitter the last two years or so, he'd still held a fond place in her heart, coward that he was. Aphrodite might have spurred her to be weak to her own desire, had turned it from a gentle flame to a consuming bonfire, but the desire at all had been hers. Her desire, her decision, and - mostly - her want.

To take something for herself for once, to decide and not be given.

Youthful folly had driven her terrible decision, enchanted as she'd been by Alexander's beauty - perhaps they'd enchanted each other, in that way. Deiphobos, though he was obviously Paris' brother, wasn't nearly as handsome. Helen imagined that as far from his famous kinsman as Alexander probably was, so far was Deiphobos from his brother, though he was by far the better warrior. He was just not a more pleasant man behind closed doors, and Helen would rather have to spend hours urging Alexander to go do his duty than deal with Deiphobos.

She would much rather have Menelaos back, for while she hadn't chosen, he'd become dear to her and was both a good warrior and husband. Perhaps that wasn't a thought she deserved to think any longer, now, so long since she left and with so much blood between Sparta and Troy, but it bubbled up anyway and cast the fond memory of both Menelaos and Alexander into bitter light. She'd made choices, yes, but she wasn't the only one, and what was her choice, in the end, against the greater ones of the men around her? Not least of which was Alexander's, to take her wealth along with her, to approach Menelaos as a guest first. Pressing her lips together, Helen shoved off the bed and crossed the floor, opening the shutter to breathe in the cool evening air. Smoke and the smell of cooking food still lingered on the breeze, evidence of the city's abandon in response to the Achaean fleet being gone. Which was terribly strange, honestly. Why would they just leave, after all this? Helen frowned, leaning out the window, but at this angle all she could see was the clutter of houses, the stretch of plain towards the beach the camp had been on, and not the strange, horse-like construction that they’d left behind. That sort of thing seemed to be something Odysseus would come up with, but if so, it was certainly something terribly convoluted. Helen couldn't see the point of it, since it might just as well have been burned if only Laocoön had had his way, and then all that effort would've gone to waste.

Would have, except the gods had clearly shown their displeasure.

Why?

It was a huge, wooden statue of a horse, what was the point of that, unless they truly were enamoured of it as a dedication...

Helen stared out at the dark city with a little frown, spotting the occasional faint flicker from the fires the soldiers outside the walls had lit for the feasting, burning out now. Another fire flickered, dim and hesitant - no. It was just further away than the others. Helen stared, leaning out of the window again as she watched the fire slowly grow. That was in the direction of Patroklos and Achilles' grave mound, and if she could see it so easily from here, it must have grown large very quickly.

Helen stared, and whipped around, though she passed Deiphobos entirely and yanked the door open, hurrying out into the corridor. 

The horse had been protected by the gods, there was a fire - a _signal fire_ , surely - out on Achilles' mound, and why would the Achaeans have finally left when they were closer to winning than not? Helen could not say that she cared to remain here any longer, but the facts laid out to her suggested something terribly cruel. And as much as she had been nostalgic for Sparta and Menelaos lately, she would be far more wretched and cursed ten times over to wish the terrible shape of this fate on the inhabitants of Troy. However they planned to get in, they were clearly planning on doing so in the middle of the night, with everyone drunk and full of food and relief. She felt a little ill.

So distracted was she that she missed the shuffle of footsteps from around the corner, and a twinned grunt thumped against the stones around them as Helen and Cassandra smacked into each other.

"... Cassandra?" Helen gasped as she caught her balance, clutching the other woman by her arms and then shook her head, though Cassandra got there before her.

"What are you doing out here?" It could have been accusing, but Cassandra hadn't accused Helen of a single thing since she’d arrived at Troy. Admittedly that was partly because Cassandra had been very young, then, but the girl had become like a beloved little sister to her. No, Cassandra sounded confused, maybe a little worried, her dark eyes darker than usual in the shadowed corridor.

"There's a fire out on Achilles' mound, and the horse, it must have been Pallas Athena and Poseidon---"

"I know, Helen," Cassandra murmured, nodding her head in that jerky way she never had done before Apollo had given her prophetic powers and then by necessity spoiled the gift. Helen was one of the few who knew the whole of it - not even Helenos did, even as he'd benefited from the whole tragic affair.

" _Cassandra_ ," Helen hissed, shaking her a little, "that means the Achaeans - my husband, his brother, all the rest--- that means they haven't really left, and everyone is asleep and drunk and we need to _tell th_ \---"

"No, Helen."

"... What?" Helen stared, pulling back and letting go of Cassandra as if burned. Cassandra's dark eyes were holes in her face, looking like she'd been stripped of skin down to her skull. Her long, dark hair was in disintegrating braids, tendrils brushing against her shoulders, cheeks and forehead in a faint draft. They seemed a little like wisps of smoke against her skin, ghostly pale in the dark.

"Troy is already dead, Helen. I know this. Now you know it, too." Cassandra's tone of voice was a quiet grinding, dry as dust and, underneath that, hiding pain. She reached out with surprisingly cold hands and took Helen's hands in her own, squeezing and rubbing slender fingers as if it was Helen who needed warmed up, and not Cassandra. "Troy is already dead, and I've tried to say so, but no one will listen, even less so with, with Helenos not here. If he'd have known. He doesn't always get the same visions I do. And if you try to go tell anyone, they might believe you knew of this."

Helen paled so quickly she swayed on her feet, and was glad to have Cassandra's hands so close to grip on to so she could steady herself. She would like to protest that terrible implication, but she could not.

"Father would believe you, of course, but he's one voice among many. Let it go, go back and hide until your husband finds you." Cassandra shook her head, then just shook, a fine little tremble that ran through her body like a hard north wind ruffling the tops of a forest's boughs. "Fire. Fire spewed from a horse's mouth, black sails and oars like spears. The winds and waves will make the voyage long."

Her mind trying to make sense of the words for several long seconds, fighting against divine scrambling and of course not able to grasp it, Helen finally sighed, squeezing back building tears and grief by will alone. This had been her home for fifteen years, and now the city should fall with soldiers and civilians both asleep and far too drunk to defend themselves?

"I'll go back," Helen whispered, making it a promise by the defeated ferocity of her tone - Cassandra was heeded in so little, Helen was always minded to give her what she could. This might well be the last time she did so. The thought choked her and she hissed something that might have been a sob if she'd have let it been such. She yanked Cassandra close and hugged her, barely giving Cassandra time to clutch her tightly in return before she let go, turned around and practically fled back down the corridor. Under the slapping staccato of Helen's footsteps, there was the slower, softer drag of Cassandra's, smothered by the door snapping closed behind Helen. She closed her eyes and leaned there against the door, gently smacking her head back against the wood and digging her nails into first her palms, then the door, and lastly her own hair. She’d never dared to think to a possible end of the war no matter which side she imagined winning, but how could it end _this_ way?

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Helen pushed away from the door and slowly crossed the floor, not sure whether to lay down next to Deiphobos again or sit down by the loom, though working might make too much noise. A glitter of errant light caught her attention and she looked sideways, to where Deiphobos' armour and sword was hung.

His sword.

Helen stared, then slowly turned, taking the couple steps needed to be within reach to pick up the weapon. It felt far lighter than it seemed it should, and was yet deathly heavy in her hands.

There were many people in Troy Helen would not wish the coming slaughter on, but Deiphobos was no longer one of them. Turning away from the armour, sword still in her hands, she hid the weapon away, her heart hammering in her chest the whole time. Deiphobos didn't wake, however, and Helen found herself sitting on the stool in front of her loom. She fingered what she'd finished so far of the fabric and tapped one of her feet against a couple of the nearest loom weights, setting them gently to swinging. She wondered how far away the fleet was, how long it might take for them to see the fire, how long to sail back to the beach. How long to kill the men camped outside, how long to get into the city itself.

How long it might be until the slaughter began.

Helen sat there, listening to the quiet grinding noise of stone brushing against stone, and pretended her hands, tightly folded in her lap, weren't shaking.

###### 

Ganymede stared up at the dark ceiling, squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them again. 

He couldn't sleep.

Maybe that should've been expected, knowing what was happening and regardless of whether he could see anything of it or not. Zeus had certainly done something to ensure he wouldn't - any surface that would normally act as conduit to help him see the world below was a stubborn, flickering wash of nothing. Ganymede didn't know whether he should curse his lover out or be infinitely grateful, but in the end it didn't matter.

Because he could still see, even when he shouldn't.

He hadn't understood what was going on at first, flickers of flames in the corners of his eyes, barely steady and most often disappearing when he turned to look, bewildered since there was no fire nearby. Closing his eyes had made the teasing awareness of fire disappear, which had been a relief at first. Pacing his room, Ganymede had stopped and finally just stared at a spot on the floor, and slowly the flames had stopped dancing in dizzying, split snatches at the edges of his vision, coalescing into a whole in front of him. A huge bonfire on Achilles and Patroklos’ mound.

He'd been so shocked he'd staggered back and tripped himself, landing on the bed. Looking away hadn't helped, though. Collecting his confusion while staring up at the ceiling had allowed a moment of respite, but as confused as he was, the thundering awareness of what might, would soon be, happening down at Troy was ever present - and the bonfire had been back, the view swinging obediently out to the sea from the beach. It was cloudy over Troy, so the view had been an incomprehensible wash of darkness at first, until there was a shift of a darker black against the darkness.

Ships.

He shouldn't be seeing any of this. He _could not_ see like this, and with Zeus having clearly smothered any way for him to see below like he normally did, Troy's fate should have been an agonizing, blessed nothing until it was over.

Instead Ganymede watched one ship run up on the beach, followed by another, and understood. Normally, he couldn't see anything without using a focusing surface of some kind. Normally. But his ability to see below had been weird the last couple days. He'd just been dismissing it, chalking it up to what had happened with Elektra, to knowing that surely it was almost over now, to the boiling nausea in his gut. He should've known better, for he could pinpoint the moment the changes had started down to the day. It was when he'd talked to Hera. She'd reached for his face, but not touched him. Had made an aborted gesture in the air as if she'd intended to wipe his eyes clean. And she had, hadn't she?

He couldn't sleep.

Yanking the pillow from under his head, Ganymede pressed it to his face, staying there for... not long enough. For in his head he could see the rows ships growing longer, broader, could imagine the warriors collecting among the ruins of their burned camp, hidden behind the partially ruined wall. Not that they needed to be hidden, when everyone in and around Troy was sleeping and drunk. He could imagine it, and the images in his head loomed large in the darkness behind his eyelids. He had to yank the pillow away again, staring up at the ceiling as he watched the army grow as the Achaeans slowly made their third and final landing. But the gates were closed, weren't they? Or had they been left open during the revelry? Regardless of if they had, the Scaean gate was partially ruined from how the Trojans had had to break off stones to get the horse in, and would be easier to breach. 

The horse. The horse which Athena and Poseidon had protected from being torched, because it wasn't just a wooden figure of a horse, wasn't just a dedication to Athena, wasn't _just_ anything.

Ganymede's gut swooped in a drop as when Eros dropped him to let Hymen or one of the other Erotes catch him in the air, and his view of the land below swung around with it. His impossible sight showed the detritus of revelry left out on the city's winding streets, some men and boys sleeping out though it was surely a little too cool for that, the flat roofs spilling over with people out up there, cups and meat and wine left around. Sleeping. And if anyone was awake, they weren't close enough to see and raise warning as a rope dropped down from the back end of the horse's belly. Ganymede closed his eyes again, slapped a hand over his face. Could see what would happen now; if the gates were closed, the warriors who were in the horse would open it. If even one gate was open, even that wouldn't be needed. They could just---

"They're all _asleep_." 

Digging his nails into his forehead, teeth grit so hard the pressure turned into a headache, there was a single, wild moment where Ganymede contemplated finding Hera and beg. Throw himself at her feet and give her more of what she clearly wanted, having removed his human limitation when it came to sight. She would probably make him look further, for longer, until she might even vaguely contemplate stopping the assault.

Which he knew she wouldn't do, no matter what he did. The issue she had with him, after all, wasn't that he wasn't sufficiently upset about this where she could see; it was that he was here at all.

And if there was one thing Ganymede would not give Hera until and unless Zeus tired of him, it was his absence from Olympos and Zeus. And she would have done all this anyway. It didn't actually matter that he was here, that he was what he was to Zeus. It didn't. It was terribly hard to believe that, right now. Biting his tongue, Ganymede drew in a wet, shaking breath - and choked on it as a muffled scream echoed in his ears.

"Wh--- _Hebe_?!" He was up on his feet and off the bed before he quite caught on, yanking the door to his bedroom open, but the corridor outside was empty. Looking around, Ganymede stood there, uncomprehending, until his vision wavered and shifted again. There was a child crying. Ganymede stared at a spreading pool of blood soaking into the leather of a pair sandals, staining the tanned toes, of a work-worn woman's hand splayed boneless in the blood. Bronze flickered in the light of a banked fire, and Ganymede slammed his eyes shut.

Stumbling back to his bed, Ganymede didn't even get back on it; his knees gave and he sank over it, but couldn't keep his eyes shut, couldn't keep his face pressed to the mattress. He should, and it should be easy. Far easier than watching. But the darkness inside his eyelids was painted red as blood, and Ganymede looked again, helplessly. 

The army outside Troy split up on approach, working through the camps and ever closer to the city. The air was thick with choked-off, rattling groans, as well as thickening smoke. He closed his eyes. Opened them again. Someone had set fire to a couple houses in the poorest part of the town, waking up at least a couple of the inhabitants, but all did not wake up to flee the growing fire. Ganymede turned his face into the mattress again, then opened them, and though there was nothing to see but the darkness between his eyes and the fabric pressed against his chin and mouth, he saw a teenaged girl wake as an Achaean - he didn't recognize him - grabbed her by the wrist. She took up the fire iron nearby, but was too close to swing it easily, and fell to the floor with the heavy backhand the warrior dealt her. He dragged her out by her hair as she screamed, half-choked with curses. A couple old men, asleep over tables that had been put in the street, coughed up blood and confusion as they were stabbed in the back in passing. Bronze glittered in growing firelight, and screams were starting to wake more people up before they were killed before they could wake, but lingering drunkenness made feet heavy and hands slow.

Digging his hands into his hair, Ganymede muffled a sob into the mattress, then staggered to his feet.

He couldn't stay here.

He didn't want to see anyone, but he _couldn't stay here_.

Ganymede hadn't ever been this clumsy in his whole life as he wove down the corridor, unable to keep his eyes open to see where he was going - and half the time he couldn't see what was in front of him anyway. Rather saw Troy below and the Achaeans spilling in force past the half-open gates, pushing the doors wide. But he could also not close them if he was to walk without running into anything, and he pushed doors open and left them open behind him without thinking. Careened down the corridor, yanking another set of doors open.

"Zeus--!"

The bedroom was empty. Heart hammering in his chest and pressing trembling lips together, Ganymede looked around the empty room and couldn't tell if he wanted to cry or throw up. A chirp had him looking up, staring for an uncomprehending moment at the huge eagle sitting out on the balcony's railing, one of the doors open. It chirped again, ruffled its feathers, and then lifted off. Ganymede whipped around, almost ran into the side of the door instead of through the doorway, and took off down the corridors again.

He stubbed his toes on a column as Menelaos along with the greater Aias pushed the doors to the palace open, charging the drunken guards who'd gathered there to try and defend the place. Shook his head and pushed away from the pillar. He smacked his shoulder into a corner before the columned portico to the entrance as a house collapsed to the fire ravaging it, the woman staggering away from being pushed out by her husband, who was left trapped inside. He ran outside and closed his eyes against that woman having the baby in her arms torn away from her and tossed to the cobblestones. The eagle swooped down in front of Ganymede as he stumbled down the front entrance steps and swung away, though flew closely and slowly enough he could easily follow as it led him through the orchard and around the palace, up behind it. Towards the highest peak.

Of course.

When the eagle landed on top of the high back of the throne at the farthest end of the peak’s flat top, Ganymede was half choked and blinded, breathless and aching. It seemed a small price to pay; he wasn't the one dying, after all. Could he even claim to hurt, even if his whole body seemed to throb with it? Zeus, limned in the faintest gleam of moonlight and a distant, furiously pinched look on his face that Ganymede only saw the barest suggestion of in the dark, looked over, dark expression going darker before the bouncing flight of Ganymede's curls twisted it into something else entirely.

"Ganyme---"

Ganymede practically threw himself at Zeus' feet, knees scraping against the stone and cracking against the bottom of the throne, but it hurt little compared to the pain in his chest, behind his eyes. He couldn't even tell whether the fresh well of tears was for the numbing spike shooting up through his legs or for the brief view of Cassandra running into Athena's temple, away from Aias and the men behind him. He might have sobbed, perhaps, as he pressed his forehead to Zeus' knees, fingers clutching at the hem of his tunic - which, Ganymede realized distantly, wasn't one of Zeus’ usual ones. It was of a distinctly Luwian style and sensibility, and he went cold even as there was something small and warm and soft that unfolded with the realization.

"Zeus, _make it stop_." Here, there was no one to judge the way his voice broke, no one to judge his pleading demand, to tell him to act with more decorum, to not yank and twist at the hem of the fringed tunic. There was no one but Zeus, who dropped a trembling hand into Ganymede's hair.

"I can't, my prince." So quiet and aching, with enough impotent fury behind it the stone around them trembled a little in answer. Above that was pain, and Ganymede might have cried because of how it suffused the air, Zeus' presence, if he wasn't already. He shook his head, pressing trembling lips thin. 

"No." That wasn't what he meant, even if that was what he wanted. He could still not escape the screaming, the sight and sound of swords going through flesh, scraping against bone. With his forehead pressed against one hard, smoothly-shaped knee, his vision was mostly obscured by his own hair, but out of the corner of his eyes, he could still catch glimpses of Troy, so far away, of buildings on fire and the Achaean soldiers running through the streets. "Piḫaššaššiš. I can't--- I keep _seeing it_."

There was no other way to explain, his voice straining, barely able to finish what little he'd said, but Zeus stilled. The hand combing through his hair tangling in it for a moment, and he seemed to understand well enough as the air around them thickened, tasting like ozone and airless fury.

"I see. Here, let me have a look." Zeus pulled him up and Ganymede went because there was no way to refuse the king of the gods. He stood on his own feet though he would rather not as he met Zeus' storm-dark eyes. They blackened entirely as Zeus lightly ran his hand over Ganymede's head, through his hair and resting lightly over his eyes for a moment. It was blessedly quiet and dark for that split-second, and Ganymede could have begged for him to keep it there when he took it away; a couple tears escaped instead, which Zeus wiped away. "It's not permanent, at least. It'll last long enough, too long, but it's not permanent. She wouldn't truly bless you in such a way."

He smiled grimly and finally pulled Ganymede closer, onto his lap and against his chest. "I can't undo it, but I don't need to."

Turning Ganymede sideways, he pressed one of his ears to his chest, right over his heart, and spread his hand over Ganymede's face, covering his eyes and other ear. Ganymede blinked, long lashes brushing soft skin, and sucked in a shuddering breath, liquid heat following. He couldn't see anything. Zeus' other arm wrapped around him and held him closer still while Zeus leaned in over him, lips pressed to the top of his head. "Listen to me, beloved, and see nothing at all."

There was the tiniest tremble to Zeus' voice for all of the vast surety of the words, and Ganymede could feel his hair trembling under the weight of tears that weren’t his. Tangling one hand in the finely woven tunic and throwing his other around the arm wrapped around him, Ganymede curled up further, pressing close to the god and feeling no shame for it. Under the shielding darkness of Zeus' hand there was nothing but the slow, even thunder of Zeus' heart, a counterweight to the agitated, ponderous wash of his essence, an ocean turning like the sky above. It demanded all of Ganymede's attention, so much so not even the blood-edged images his mind had been pulling up to substitute what he was seeing whenever he closed his eyes could take form. There was only Zeus, and a slowly spreading, weightless sensation, like whenever he got to fly.

Far below and away from Olympos, under a cover of clouds, sacred Ilion fell. 

Nothing could stop that now, long as it had been intended and demanded. So while there were witnesses aplenty, there was no reason for one of the city's last living princes to see more than he already had of it.


	11. In the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trojan War is over, and one of the last living princes of Troy is left with barely anything.

Ganymede woke up to twilight and quiet strain of song.

The lyre was crying while Apollo sang. His voice no louder than a murmur, the Luwian was both terribly familiar and alien to Ganymede's ears with how long it'd been since he'd heard someone else speak it. The broken song Apollo had poured out for Troilus had hurt in an entirely different way, woven together of both Luwian and Achaean as it'd been. Wiping his eyes as he reluctantly sat up, curling up around his knees, Ganymede found himself out of tears as he listened to Apollo. How many times had he cried since that last night? How long had he slept? Looking around the blue-tinted room, there were no signs of how much time had passed. All he had was feeling cold and numb, a hollow ache in his gut, and missing Zeus' throbbing heat around him. That was the way he'd fallen asleep, with Zeus beside him, burying him in his arms and against his solid body. The bed was cold aside from where he'd lain himself so however long ago Zeus had left, it certainly wasn’t recently. Finally, Ganymede slowly looked to Apollo, waiting until the last chord of the mourning song faded into silence before he spoke up.

"... How long was I..?" Wincing at how rough he sounded, Ganymede grimaced and cleared his throat, but reaching for the kantharos on the small table beside the bed seemed far too much work. In fact, he really could just roll right back over again. His heart wasn't as numb as the rest of him, and by the tremble to his lips when Apollo smiled - small, tight - Ganymede knew it wouldn't be long until he might start crying again. He’d really rather not embarrass himself further. Mourning wasn't an embarrassment, of course, but as many tears as Ganymede had poured out for it made it feel like his sorrow was an embarrassment now that the need of it was still lingering.

"As long as you needed," Apollo said as he stood up, carefully placing the lyre on the chair and coming up to the bed, holding a hand out, "but now, come."

"Apaliunas, I---" His voice would have broken had he continued, so it was better he choke up right then. He realized only then what he'd called Apollo, but it fit. Right now, what else was it suitable to call the former tutelary deity of Wilusa? Apollo pressed his lips together, and Ganymede could feel the weight of the stare aimed at the top of his bent head, vast, wanting, and tired.

"Child." Hands, long and slender, cupped Ganymede's face and a burning pair of lips pressed to his dry forehead. Usually Apollo didn't seem much older than him, a bare few years at most, but at the moment the look on his face and weighted warmth in his voice seemed older than time. Or maybe just old enough to stand in for a father long gone, where he usually took on a role more like Ganymede's older brother. "You'll regret it if you don't get up. I have something to show you."

Still, as Apollo's hands fell from Ganymede's face to his shoulders, it was mostly by their insistent pull that he got up, not under his own power. Well on his feet, Ganymede did walk over to the clothes chest by himself, but rifling through it for something to wear, even less just opening the top seemed far too complicated a task and to take too much strength. Despite his tarrying, Apollo didn't call in any of the probably nearby nymphs, or admonish him. Instead he opened the chest himself, pulled out the nearest tunic, and somehow got Ganymede into it. Leaving his lyre on the chair, he took Ganymede by the wrist and walked him out of the room, through the silent, shadowed corridor, and Ganymede followed until Apollo was opening the door out to the rest of the palace. Then he tried to dig his feet in, remembering sharply how relatively close he was to Zeus', and thus Hera's, rooms.

"Wait, I don't---"

"She's not nearby at the moment." Apollo shook his head, hair all unbound and gleaming faintly in the unlit halls, providing most of the actual light for them. Or for Ganymede, rather. Apollo didn’t need light to see. "She's won, and she knows she has. While she's been unkind in her smugness in front of both Zeus and myself, she knows better than to go that far when it comes to you, right now."

She'd been unkind in forcing him to see like she had, but that only he and Zeus knew about. His strengthened sight seemed to be gone now, like Zeus had predicted, and Ganymede was relieved no matter how useful such a thing might be when he wasn't being tortured with the razing of his town of birth. He had other ways to see, and though he could probably have gotten used to seeing as the gods did, Ganymede doubted it wouldn't have had averse effects at some later point. It was too much for a human to deal with. 

Reluctantly, Ganymede let Apollo pull him out into the corridor, down to the left and past Zeus' rooms, though there was a light lit behind the closed doors. He threw a glance over his shoulder as they passed and resisted the urge to ask Apollo to stop. He didn’t even know if he could deal with that yet, anyway. They went out into the peristyle, through the open courtyard filled with potted plants and herb beds, into the corridor on the other side that was Hera's, and Ganymede's stomach clenched. But nothing happened; if Hera was even in her rooms she was probably resting as there was no light to be seen. They didn't linger long, only enough to reach the colonnaded verandah that led out into the garden on that side of the building. Not that it was much a garden, really. It was more of an open flat ground, lined on one side with a couple pomegranate shrubs and spread thickly with flowers in summer. It was bare and hard now, cold under Ganymede's bare feet. Apollo stopped them right at the cliff’s edge and put himself behind Ganymede, hands on his shoulders.

"Father has given me leave to ensure Troy's story will be remembered," Apollo said, leaning down until he could talk quietly into Ganymede's ear, cheek lightly resting against the uncombed mess of Ganymede's hair, silky even after grief and sleep, "I'll start looking for minds who will put suitable words to it."

"... Oh." Exhaling, Ganymede closed his eyes. That... that didn't fix or change anything, but if the city would at least be remembered, that was some small balm. He still felt numb enough he could just as well have been standing on air instead of dry grass and cold earth; it was all the same at the moment.

"And look." Apollo took one hand off Ganymede's shoulders to point past him, forward into the vast view of the mountain range and the sky spreading out in front of them, with glittering stars starting to come out in the cloudless sky. 

What Apollo meant Ganymede couldn't tell at first, for he was looking at absolutely nothing, no matter how he stared. Confirmation, again, that he really hadn't kept Hera's "gift" and he could have cried for that, too. It did nothing for his confusion, though, as there _was_ nothing to see, since the stunning view wasn't what Apollo meant. So what did Apollo mean? Relaxing now, as much because of his lessening fear and anxiety as his initial confusion, Ganymede could slowly follow the intent of Apollo's gesture as it extended far past the view of this autumn-wrapped evening. Away, down. Olympos was left behind, the Achaean lands beyond a negligible blur, and then everything stopped. 

Water. Ships. People scattered on them, most asleep, some still rowing to keep them on course.

Was that...

"... Apaliunas--- Trojans?"

Not many, and yes, Ganymede knew there would be at least some women and children taken alive by the Achaeans, but their lives would be unpleasant and lead nowhere, forgotten and trampled, and he could do nothing. Even some of the royal family, especially Priam’s daughters, might have survived, but even as he opened his mouth to ask about them in particular, Ganymede just closed it again, question unasked. He couldn’t handle knowing, right now. How long their lives really would be, how free they would be – probably not much. And he couldn’t handle knowing and then knowing how terrible it might yet be. These, though...

"Aeneas, at least, has been fated to survive the fall of Troy," Apollo said, his quiet voice soothing like warm nectar, "but how many others would come with him no one could account for. He might have left Troy entirely by himself and that would still have eventually fulfilled his destiny."

Ganymede's chest burned and his eyes threatened tears in the middle of the numbness, but he breathed until he could swallow and speak up without further emptying himself. There were quite a few ships, though still small in number, and the proof of survivors, free where others were not, was a relieving surprise that was a little too large at the moment. Scrubbing a couple of escaping tears away determinedly, he tipped his head so he could just barely catch sight of Apollo's luminous eyes and sweetly shining face.

"Will they be safe?" Such a small part of Troy and Dardanos, but it was something.

"Hera's bright gaze is already growing dark with harmful desire, but this time there is neither necessity nor fate to aid her. She won't succeed. I think she knows that, which will unfortunately anger her more than she otherwise might have been for this small group of survivors. It'll be all right, however." Apollo's voice was a steady, comforting drone, nearly rhythmic in its firm certainty. He was speaking truth, prophetic and unavoidable.

"... Okay." Sighing, Ganymede slumped against Apollo, who took his weight easily, dropping both hands back to his shoulders. Squeezed, and they stood there for a long couple minutes, just watching the ships. Finally, though, Ganymede could no longer concentrate and his vision wavered. When he blinked, all he was looking at was the stunning view of the sky and Olympos before them. He didn't feel any less numb, or any less wanting of sleep, but... his heart didn't feel quite as cold as it had been for the last... however long it'd been since Troy's last night.

"You need to eat something. Come, Father has more for you." Apollo shook him a little as he spoke, which did as much as his words to stir Ganymede. More for him? What more could there even be? He could swear Apollo was smiling a little, but he didn't get a chance to look, for Apollo turned him around and practically marched them back inside. 

They went back the way they'd come until Apollo could knock on the door from where light could be seen from under it. Between the knock and the door opening, Ganymede had the sudden and most certainly unreasonable fear that who would open it wouldn't be Zeus, but Hera, or that Hera would be inside the room as well and this would lead to something further awful because she had somehow squeezed yet more allowances regarding Troy's destruction from Zeus---

The door opened, and there was only Zeus in the doorway. Behind him, the room was dimly lit and clearly empty of anyone but himself. Ganymede heard himself suck in a breath that hiccuped, but didn't break, and flew forward, throwing his arms around Zeus' middle. A large, warm hand fell to the small of his back, and he'd have to thank or apologize to Apollo later for ignoring him so atrociously, but for now he was staying right where he was. Wasn't even aware of if Zeus and Apollo exchanged any words before he was pulled inside and the door closed behind them.

Zeus pulled away then, and, awkward now, Ganymede let him. Watching Zeus kneel down to one knee was like watching a mountain move, and even as numb as he was he lost his breath, pinned there by Zeus' presence alone while the god reached out and cupped his face in his hands, just staring at him. Zeus' eyes were burning silver, and there were faint shadows under them.

"Ganymede..."

It hurt, hearing his name said that way, and Ganymede shook his head, clutching Zeus' hands where they were still cupping his face. "Don't--- don't say my name like that."

It was too close to a begging plea of forgiveness, far more plainly than the ache in his voice when he'd said he could not stop the razing of Troy, and Ganymede found he didn't like it. Maybe there'd be other times when he might actually want an apology and would curse himself for not having one to remember, but hopefully that would never need to happen. Either way, right now that wasn't at all what he wanted from Zeus, and though his admonishment, raw and bold as it would only rarely be, didn't unwind all of the tension settled in the corners of Zeus' mouth or weighing on his shoulders, there was something that eased, just a little. Sighing, Zeus stood back up and gestured across the room to the balcony beyond, where a couch and a table beside it stood, laden with tray and bowls and a kantharos.

Ganymede couldn't say he was the least bit hungry despite that it was apparently days since he'd last eaten, but for all that he actually didn't need to eat and drink as often as he would have as mortal, and could further probably go longer still without, that would clearly not be tolerated. So he made himself cross the floor, shivering a little as he stepped out into the cool autumn evening air again, which, by Zeus' will, wasn't let inside his room though the door was left open for it. There was a blanket spread over a corner of the bench, and Ganymede almost sat down on it before he froze, frowning. Pulled back and stared at the neat, geometric pattern, the heavily fringed hem of it. It was Luwian, that much he could tell, and lovingly worn in ways nothing on Olympos would ever become. He swallowed heavily - why would Zeus even have this? It was clearly of human make...

Slowly, he reached out, trailing his fingers over the soft fabric, and memory surged up and stabbed him much like Achilles had surged forward from his hiding spot near the well and attempted to assault Troilus and Polyxena. Trembling knees knocked into the bench as Ganymede ripped the blanket off it, holding it up as he stared at it. His hands shook so badly it took him a couple moments to realize it wasn't the trembling that made the pattern blur as dark spots spread on it from the fire-hot tears that was, once again, spilling over.

"Z-zeus--- how... _why_?"

Had he done something Ganymede wasn't even sure the gods could do, to get something, however small, from a Troy that hadn't existed for many decades before it actually fell? Ganymede would rather have expected this blanket to have long since been worn too thin to be kept, or simply lost somewhere, unused and no longer useful. It had just been a blanket for his bed, after all. Not even something that'd been meant to saved, simply used, practical and simple. It'd also been one of the things his mother had woven, and though it could of course not have kept the scents from her even more distant touch, Ganymede still buried his face in the blanket and imagined he could pick out some long-lingering and hidden trace of it.

"It was being used to decorate a small family shrine made up from a part of your bedroom," Zeus said quietly. Ganymede could feel the heat of his hand, large where it was spread out just beyond touching over his back, hovering there for a long moment before Zeus pulled away, rounded the table and sat down. The weight of his gaze was hot like liquid metal poured into molds for forging, and Ganymede smothered something that might have been a sob as well as a laugh.

"A shrine?"

"You know you had a public one in the city, but yes. The private one was expanded to include Tithonos as well, after Eos took him. It seemed a pity to leave this there." There was a shift in the fabric, Zeus touching it instead of touching him, and Ganymede's heart ached for several unrelated reasons. All the earlier numbness was gone like it'd been blown away by a brisk western breeze, the sort that came fresh in early spring, not quite warm yet but heralding the coming sweet season. He wasn't sure he liked it, because the tears refused to stop for what felt like far too long. Finally, Ganymede sucked in a breath that was as steady as it could be, straightened up and gently draped the blanket over the back of the couch, then sat down in the corner it'd been spread over before, curling up there.

"Th---"

"Don't, Ganymede. Not for this," Zeus said, implacable iron and forbidding weight to his voice, and Ganymede rather choked on his intended words as much as his breath. At a loss, he nodded, not daring to glance up at Zeus. Instead he reached for the food automatically, knowing he would be told to eat otherwise. The first sip of nectar, as reluctant as he'd been and intending just to stare at the shimmering liquid for as long as he could before he did actually get reprimanded to drink, loosened something. It wasn't the return of hunger, but the heady, fulfilling sweetness urged itself to be drunk, and the fluffy and tender bread-like ambrosia could not be left on the tray, still steaming faintly from Hestia's oven. Impossible, certainly, but what did such things matter when it came to the Deathless Ones and their immortal food and drink?

Ganymede ate until there was only delicate, nut-laden cookies left, and Zeus was quiet - did take the cookie Ganymede handed him with a snort that carried as much reluctant humour as Ganymede felt upon hearing it, and while he couldn't quite smile for it, it didn't feel terrible to almost do so. They ate the cookies like that under linger silence; Ganymede taking one for himself, and handing Zeus another, and then they both dutifully ate. It was almost something like true peace.

Of course it couldn't last, but maybe Ganymede should've known Apollo hadn't meant that Zeus only had food for him. Truly, why would it only be food Zeus might wish to give him, though it was doing something small and vital to make him feel, if not better, then more present?

"Apollo's already told you how Troy will be assured to be remembered," Zeus finally said into the still darkness, his face tipped up towards the dizzying display of stars spread out over the silken night sky, "but you will be remembered as well, and through you, Troy again. The stars will carry you, and all who look up at the sky will know---"

" _Zeus_!" Ganymede would usually never interrupt Zeus. The number of times he'd done so could, including this one, be counted on one hand, but fear and an instant sick feeling of dread pulled the cry out of him. "I... I don’t---!" 

Pale and trembling a little, Ganymede had to smother the urge to get up and run, as if that would let him escape what Zeus apparently intended to do. The stars? He might have been grieving and wishing not to have experienced anything of this, but something like this was not what he wanted! Reflexively, he glanced up, searching until he found the seven stars - one of them was indeed fainter than it had been before, and the sick twist in his gut turned into a swoop.

"My lord---!"

"Peace, Ganymede." Zeus interrupted him finally, looking down, and Ganymede could only barely make himself meet his god's eyes, but Zeus was quiet until he did look up. Zeus' sharp, regal face twisted into a small grimace and he raised a hand, finally touching Ganymede with the barest of brush of his fingertips over a cold, pale cheek. Warmth followed, and Ganymede might have sagged into the touch if he still wasn't so distressed. "Don't look like that, my prince. You're not going anywhere."

"But..."

"I'm not _literally_ putting you among the stars, beloved," Zeus said wryly, and for as reassuring as the words and endearment was, Ganymede was now thoroughly consternated. 

He was also still caught in the lingering cold dread, hands trembling even as he tried to catch his breath, remembering what Elektra had said would happen to her when she could no longer hold back the pain of her injuries, remembering hearing what'd become of the likes of Callisto and Arcas. Maybe that distraction was better than the fear of being turned into stardust and light, for as much as he would be able to escape his current grief by that being done, but not by much. Zeus cupped his face and chuckled at his expression, scrunched up as it was. 

"I know what the stories humans tell say, and what you might think you understand from them, but that's not how this works. Look."

Turning forward again, Zeus let his arm drop to Ganymede's shoulders while he raised his other arm to the heavens. Reassured a little further now that Zeus was actually touching him again, Ganymede dared shift a little closer and relax a shade against the solid body next to him. Then, he looked up, gaze following where Zeus was pointing.

"You already know what the sun is," Zeus said, a gleam of a pale glance just barely seen as he glanced down at him, and Ganymede nodded slowly as he looked back to Zeus. It'd been confusing at first, but once he understood the scope of how the world was built, the sun and Earth and the moon and the planets beyond, creation had seemed all the more captivating for it, the vastness of it fitting as well as breath-stealing, and the deities representing them here on the world all the more important. "Stars, Ganymede, are just other suns, so distant it truly doesn't matter to conceptualize said distance from us. The solar system is ours, but other suns don't belong to us, and not even Ouranos could rearrange a single star no matter how hard he might try. There's certainly not enough matter in your perfect body to make up even one star, either."

Blinking as he took that in, Ganymede slowly looked away from the sharp thrust of Zeus' profile and up at the sky again. Up at the vast, glittering tapestry of stars and the Milky Way spread out above them. All of those..? It was dizzying. "So..."

"So what we _can_ do is ensure certain people are remembered by seeding the human consciousnesses within our sphere with their stories. Like this," Zeus said and shifted his hand a little over the sky, then sketched out a pattern between a collection of stars, "that is?"

He was serious, still, even deathly so, but there was some vague teasing in his tone, and Ganymede was pretty good with patterns so after a beat or two there was the shy creep of a small smile on his face as well.

"An eagle." A pause, and he bit his bottom lip. "Your eagle."

The hand curved around his shoulder squeezed gently while Zeus dropped his other hand lower, near the horizon and a little to the left of the eagle, mapping out another pattern.

"That will be for you."

"... Why is it so _large_?" He wasn't even sure why he said it, for it was such an inane question, but Ganymede still hovered between confidently pleased and worrying it was a little presumptuous that the constellation should take up so much space. There was a moment of silence from Zeus, and if silence could be startled, that's certainly what it was. Then laughter boomed out around them, just as startled and warm. For a moment, Ganymede was filled up with nothing but the warmth of that noise, ringing through him and chasing away everything else.

"You deserve nothing less for everything, my prince," Zeus said, and all that brief, if powerful, amusement was gone in the breath it'd taken for Zeus to speak. 

Ganymede stilled, swallowing heavily against the return wash of grief, hearing the other things Zeus wasn't saying. That he had let it get to this, Troy and the surrounding countryside in ruins, what few survivors there were, scattered, and most of those to future slavery among the victors. He hadn't intended it, he hadn't wanted it, he'd fought against it as much as he could when he hadn’t been able to act like everyone else had been, but that's what it was. Squeezing his eyes shut, Ganymede just sat there for a while, cool air chilling one half of him while the other, the side pressed against Zeus, was warm like he was facing a bonfire. It was like half of him was alive and the other was dead.

All of him was still alive, though, no matter what it felt like right now, because Zeus had stolen him. He wasn't dead like he would have been (should have been) for generations by now, if he'd lived his life out in Troy. He was alive, and aside from Aeneas and his small group of survivors, he would be the only one to remember this, remember Troy, as it was while he grew up there, as it'd been before it was razed. But there was more than that, too, wasn't there? Apollo was going to make sure Troy's story survived, told among the people below, to be told into the future, and in the heavens above Zeus had just put sparkling reminders of one of Troy's princes. Aside from that he certainly wasn't going to be alone in remembering, even if all these things were wiped away; Zeus himself would hold Troy in his memory. Would, regardless of if Ganymede was here, but he was, and he was alive.

"I'm glad you came." Familiar, the words spilled out unbidden, raw and sensitive like his insides still were, and Zeus stilled until he could have been taken for a statue, the broad arm around Ganymede's shoulders heavy and unmoving as if it really was made of marble.

"You would claim that, even now?" For once, Zeus' voice was faint, soft with something that could have been regret - not an apology as such, the gifts were closer to that, but a vulnerability not really heard or seen before, not even in the pain of how he'd said his name earlier. Ganymede hadn't liked that, and he didn't like this. Opening his eyes, Ganymede sighed. Shrugged Zeus' arm off, which went as easily as if it weighed nothing compared to how solidly heavy it was, and he could feel some aborted twitch from the god beside him.

Turning around, Ganymede straddled Zeus' thighs. Or thigh, rather. Zeus had a tendency to sit rather broadly, and his thighs were beautifully thick as well, but Ganymede was terribly short compared to him, and his legs only so long. So he settled himself on one thigh, one knee between Zeus' legs and half drowned in the folds of the cloud-soft fabric of the tunic. Stretching his arms out and up around Zeus' shoulders and neck, Ganymede wove his fingers into the long, soft hair. Tugged a little, but even that didn't cause Zeus to stir, and his eyes were flat like silver coins, his face unreadable.

"Love," Ganymede said slowly as he leaned in, resting his whole front against the solid broadness of Zeus' chest, warming up that part of him as well, as if spreading life back to numb, dead flesh, "I'm glad you came and took me. Troy---"

All right, so he had to pause there, fighting against a full-body shudder and his throat closing up convulsively, but Ganymede was stubborn. The barely-there brush of fingers at his back, as if Zeus had intended to touch but drawn back before he could fully do so, helped too. It'd have helped more if Zeus had actually put his hand there, but Ganymede guessed he was feeling guilty despite that they both knew it was all about necessity and like he didn't have the right to touch him. He'd have to fix that.

"Troy would have been destroyed anyway, the only difference being I wouldn't know. That would have hurt less, to be sure, but... But I'd rather have all of this, than none of it, piḫaššaššiš." Closing the little bit of distance left, Ganymede breathed a kiss over stone-still, soft lips. It was barely a feathery brush of a kiss, so close he could feel Zeus' presence and power beat and flex in the air between, around them. Around him, too, his lips tingling for it.

A wounded little noise slipped out of Ganymede then, and he tightened his grip on Zeus' hair with a jerky twitch of his fingers. Lunging forward he practically mashed their mouths together.

For a breathless, still moment, eternal but less than a heartbeat, Zeus was still under, against him. Before it could feel like the first taste of rejection Ganymede would have known at Zeus' hands, the god’s arms came up, crushing Ganymede against himself, and the kiss was fire. Ganymede melted against his god, and while his eyes burned with a couple stray tears swelling up, as they spilled over none more followed. He pulled back, still clutching Zeus' head with his fingers tangled in his hair, and met eyes that now seemed to burn in the darkness. Pointedly, he shifted his knee in a little further, rubbing against the resistance of Zeus' hardening cock under the drape of his tunic.

"Make me forget, for a little while. I can't sleep again, not so soon, and I'd rather feel alive." Ganymede was begging, he could hear himself, but he didn't care. It was sleeping or feeling deathly numb over how Troy had fallen, practically razed to the last stone of its foundation, its people scattered or dead. He needed to feel something else.

"There's no need to beg me, beloved." Zeus stood up, sweeping Ganymede up in his arms with him and went inside, the doors closing behind him unaided. "I would give you the world, deprive all the gods of their rightfully owed savour and honours, crown you in stars and put you on my throne if that's what you wanted."

Dropping Ganymede down on the bed, Zeus followed after, looming over him on his hands and knees to cover him completely with his own body. The thick, dark spill of Ganymede's curls was a halo around his head, just barely edged in the glow from a lamp to the side of the bed, catching sparks in wide, endless green eyes. He opened his mouth, certainly to deny he'd either want or need any of those things, and fell quiet when Zeus raised one hand. The whole great solid weight of him shifted to rest on only one hand, and Ganymede could swear he felt Olympos tilt with that shift. Fingertips stroked with feathery gentleness over Ganymede's forehead, brushing errant curls away from the elegant sweep of it, then they swooped down along the fragile perfection of a temple before the large hand spread out to cup Ganymede's face, thumb caressing the cheek and rubbing away the drying tear-track there. Zeus touched like he was afraid Ganymede might disappear, and though there was nothing but warmth in his eyes for the youth under him, his face was otherwise pressed tight and grim.

"I would have kept Troy safe, out of the war, if that had been possible. I'd rather she have been placated by some oth---"

"I know. I know, piḫaššaššiš, _please stop_."

He didn't want to think about Hera. Didn't want to think about how she'd gotten what she wanted, both in terms of restitution for the very real insult she'd been paid (if only Paris had chosen her instead), and hurting him in ways far more final and terrible than just having him transformed, otherwise removing him from Olympos, or somehow killing him despite the immortality. Perhaps now she would feel better about him being here, but that was such a tiny comfort in a sea of loss it simply could not compare, and Ganymede didn't want to - couldn't - think about any of that. Not right now. Stretching his arms up, Ganymede could just barely hook his hands around the nape of Zeus' elegant neck.

"I know you did what you could."

Zeus smiled then, a bitter twist of his lips, and under them Olympos trembled, then went still. "And it wasn't enough, for once. I'll make up for it as well as I can. Starting, perhaps, with what you _actually_ asked for."

Zeus bent, breathing out, and the weight of him blossomed, stretching out as he came down, setting him to glowing and wrapping around the immortal youth spilled out on his bed. For a little while that were uncounted hours, dragged out through a night that lasted more than a full day to the consternation of many, all that was thought of was what was at hand, in that one, single room.

Loss could be dealt with later.


	12. Epilogue: Lightning Bolts and Wedding Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hera has something she needs to breach to Zeus, and, maybe, they can start to reconcile.

"What, pray tell, are you doing?" Hera asked as she paused in the doorway to Zeus' bedroom, modulating her tone to be sure it spoke of her vague interest and couldn't be taken for mocking. With barely two weeks since Troy's fall, they were certainly not anywhere near back to being fully reconciled, and both of them were being careful around each other - it was a little annoying, but Hera was quite done with this and wished to have her husband back properly. In service of such, a bit of care in the short run would have better results for the long run.

"Making sure Achilles' son knows he can't get away with sacrilege just because it was during war and he didn't get immediately punished," Zeus said where he lay sprawled on the couch, eyes closed and a little purse to his lips. He was awfully charming when he concentrated.

"Zeus---"

"You would have me let this pass unmarked? A suppliant at my altar?" Zeus opened his eyes, gray eyes narrowing almost immediately and a tension in his voice that carried several edges. Hera sighed, waving it away.

"Of course not, darling. I would indeed help you if it would be anyone else, and you should certainly deal with this as you see fit. I only care that Thetis would lose something more, so close to the first loss." She did truly not care about Neoptolemos as such, for himself, but Thetis cared, and so, for that tenuous connection, Hera did. Zeus grunted, briefly looking terribly dark-minded before the metaphorical clouds slowly scattered and he sat up, gesturing her closer.

"I'm not killing him. Not yet, anyway." By Zeus tone it was clear he was making Neoptolemos suffer his crime in less direct ways, and Hera could only care that the faint aura of satisfaction around Zeus made him seem to glow a little. Smiling faintly as she came in, she closed the door behind her and sat down on the other end of the couch. More distance between them than there would usually be, but this room seemed almost unfamiliar to her right now, despite that it wasn't so terribly long ago in the grand scheme of things, that she'd been here last and both of them happy for it. Now, it was as suffused with Zeus' presence alone as it was with the faintest trace of sunlight and nectar sweetness of her husband's cupbearer. Hera could not muster up much of her usual offended fury for it - this was part of the price to pay for her satisfaction.

"What are you here for, then?" Bland inquiry in Zeus' voice and not as edged as it could have been. Hera suppressed the initial ruffled offense - she supposed she deserved it, both in general and for any specific suspicion Zeus might have for her intent to be here, right now. He was, honestly, not wrong to be suspicious. She would have waited longer if it were up to her, but Hypnos was not so patient.

"I need to have a reason to seek my husband out?" Hera arched an eyebrow, and blessedly, for a light, true moment, the room filled with Zeus' genuine laughter, booming and bright. She'd missed that, but she firmly squashed the feeling. She might need to be more patient than this, she knew.

"Normally, no. Right now..." He eyed her, up and down with piercing weight, and Hera, though she would never squirm for it, had to fight her body for several different conflicting reactions. "Come out with it."

There was no room for being delicate, here, and Hera folded her hands in her lap. "I should think we are more than ready to go back to normal order, and in the service of that I believe Pasithea would be well served by a marriage."

They stared at each other from across the small gulf of empty couch between them. Zeus slowly draped an arm over the back of the couch, drumming his fingers against the wood, gray eyes bright and his gaze terribly pointed. "Tell me, my dear, why I should agree to marry my daughter to someone who has worked against me more than once, and very recently in the most latest attempt, and further at your behest, to my detriment?"

He didn't sound angry, but the sharp blandness wasn't particularly encouraging. Of course he knew who it was she intended for Pasithea to marry, and of course that had been the part she'd hoped to introduce as slowly as possible. Hera didn't blush, and she certainly didn't squirm as she straightened up, leaning forward a little.

"You would have a more direct line of influence to the venerable primordial and her children than just threatening with your power and have him fleeing away from it to Nyx. It might serve both you, Olympos, as us, since it’s not as if Enyo and Eris would be more than very rarely well-disposed to listen. And Hypnos, as enamoured as he is of Pasithea, would treat her well." She paused, raising a hand to gesture out towards the twilight dark outside. "Their domains are further complimentary, so deeper association would increase their honours. And if he should prove an unsuitable husband, I hope you don't mean to say Pasithea wouldn't know she could go to you, her king and beloved father, for protection and have her demand to break her marriage go unheeded."

They stared at each other, Hera both intently earnest and knowingly working for her goals, Zeus a dark-limned implacable pillar of strength, unreadable even to Hera in that moment. Slowly, he tipped his head a shade, half-wavy hair brushing his shoulder.

"You will have to talk to Eurynome, of course," Zeus said, and he’d clearly learned something from both Persephone and Hebe's marriages, which was pleasing to see. Then he narrowed his eyes until they were silver slits and reclined once more, stretching himself out in unfair glory, and as far as Hera knew, untouchable to her as of yet. "And while I am indeed minded to give you this, you’ll have to convince me better than that."

Normally, Hera would have been aggravated and displeased at the implication of what Zeus was asking for. Both that he would bargain a daughter’s marriage with such a thing as well as with how much of a mismatch as they could sometimes be in need. But it had been a truly atrocious amount of time since they'd enjoyed each other, and he was only using the talk of Pasithea and Hypnos’ wedding as a path for them to work on other issues, so Hera grinned sharply and dropped her veil in a slow, intentional shrug. 

This would not repair everything, not by a long shot, but it would be a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I've made some small changes to the narrative while working on this fic, though initially my intention had been to simply put in scenes between what we have of the Iliad and be more free-hand before and after for the rest of the Epic Cycle. Here, then, if you're interested is a list of the changes made, or narrative decisions taken! 
> 
> -I've never liked how Patroklos' and Hektor's fight goes down, that was the first to get changed to my satisfaction - not removing Apollo's involvement entirely, but changing and toning it down, to let Hektor have a proper fight with and a rightful kill of Patroklos.   
> -The same of course went for Achilles' and Hektor's fight. While obviously Hektor can't stand up to him for long, I just never liked that "threw a spear lol done" (it might be realistic, but we're here for some more impressive drama), so a bit of an actual fight felt fairer to me. And Hektor running around Troy for three revolutions just felt too ridiculous and unfairly making fun of Hektor, so that, while not explicitly stated, doesn't actually happen either in my version.   
> -I've liked even less what I've read about how Penthesileia has been treated in narratives where she gets to turn up, so her chapter was very important to me, especially her and Achilles' fight. I really wanted to get to play with two (equally) powerful demigods having a fight that no one else can keep up with, to contrast with how much everyone else really lag behind both Achilles and Penthesileia in power and skill. On top of that, it was a delight to have a chance to add some f/f, since Theraichme actually "exists" in that there's a small vase painting of her presenting Penthesileia with a hare, echoing the courting scenes of the erastes and eromenos relationship.  
> -Something small that was changed from the Iliad (a blink and you'll miss it thing, honestly) is how Askalaphos dies and who kills him - in the Iliad his death is a random spear thrown, barely a sentence given to him, and since he, too, is as much of a demi-god as Achilles is I did want to give him at least _a little_ more than that, hence Penthesileia got to kill him instead, to contrast Ares' reactions between their deaths.  
> -Ganymede pleading with Zeus to delay Troy's destruction is inspired by/my own take on a scene in Quintus Smyrnaeus' Fall of Troy.  
> -I hope it's been obvious, but I chose to not use later authors' adding invulnerability to Achilles (in the Iliad, he's injured at least once), because aside from being more interesting in terms of potential danger from the war, focusing on the other things (his speed and strength, etc) that marks him as a demigod was more interesting to me. I've generally often defaulted to the versions of myths or people as given in the Iliad - initially, Sarpedon was going to be the son of Laodameia and Zeus, as he is in the Iliad, but I finally ended up using the more common version of him being a brother to Minos and Rhadamanthys.  
> -This epilogue is basically me venting my annoyance that there is apparently no author anywhere who has Neoptolemos punished for his sacrilegious killing of Priam, and when the whole Greek fleet is punished for failing to punish Ajax the lesser themselves for Cassandra's rape at Athena's altar, that just didn't seem fair to me. He has two versions of death, at least somewhat later after the war, so what Zeus is doing isn't meant as actually killing him but letting him show his divine displeasure.


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